


Thine Hatred To Crown

by Yeade



Category: The Hobbit - All Media Types, The Hobbit - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Anal Sex, Dubious Consent, M/M, Object Penetration, Oral Sex, Torture
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-12-01
Updated: 2015-01-24
Packaged: 2018-01-24 02:34:10
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 3
Words: 82,588
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1588436
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Yeade/pseuds/Yeade
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Every once in a while, the Master of Laketown had Bard brought to his bed as an object lesson on their respective positions. After Bard becomes King of Dale, he begins a relationship with Thorin, whom he eventually tells something of his past. Thorin, furious, dishes out a very generous serving of bloody cold revenge. (<a href="http://hobbit-kink.livejournal.com/10731.html?thread=21686507">OP</a>)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Thorin

**Author's Note:**

> Just a friendly reminder that, besides obvious story divergences such as Thorin failing to die, this fanfic is not canon compliant past _The Desolation of Smaug_ theatrical release. Elements from the third film and extended editions will appear, however, when and where I can finagle them in, same as references to the book(s).

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is my very first time writing Thorin and the Dwarves in any detail, not to mention the immediate aftermath of the Battle of Five Armies, so the chapter caused me... some anxiety. I could probably do with a bit of dedicated research into the history and culture of the Dwarves, both canon and fanon, rather than relying on my general knowledge of _The Lord of the Rings_ appendices and what I've gleaned from other people's stories, but I was impatient to begin. As it happens, I have need of haste because the word count has doubled, _at least_ , from that of Chapter 2. Which means, yep, there's more to come, despite the length of this section!
> 
> Per the prompt from the [Hobbit Kink Meme](http://hobbit-kink.livejournal.com), there will eventually be non-graphic **discussion of rape**. This is, however, towards the end of the chapter and has yet to be written. Until then, the fic can easily be read as gen or pre-slash edging ever so slowly into an unexpected romcom, with no warnings. Well, aside from one for the angst that's pretty standard for post-BOFA stories from Thorin's perspective, especially as I've tried to be as canon conscious as possible within the limits of this AU mash-up of book and film.

Revenge should have no bounds.  
— _Hamlet_ , Act IV, Scene VII

**· · ·**

Thorin Oakenshield had not been given to rashness since he reclaimed Erebor to rule as King Under the Mountain. When he'd first awoken after the battle, he had thought only of making amends before death took him: To Bilbo, whose brave service in a cause not his and friendship, _care_ , deserved a better turn than to be summarily accused a traitor, threatened and exiled. To Fíli and Kíli, whose voices as survivors of Laketown's ruin and as his heirs, his closest kin, should have carried more weight in his counsels. And to the rest of his company, whose honor and loyalty had demanded that they stand with him to the end, no matter how bitter an end he made. Even to Bard, whose singleminded determination to see his people done right by Thorin could respect, the will that had, wed to skill and luck, at last laid low Smaug the Magnificent.

Upon what he was certain would be his deathbed, a deep, persistent ache in his chest that was too dulled to be anything but a mercy meant to ease his passing, Thorin found that the wrongs he'd taken such offense at in his stiff-necked pride—the snarling beast under his skin that would suffer no slights nor ever bow to another's power—did not amount to so very much when balanced on the scales against his own sins and the wonder of Erebor finally, finally restored. He would not be able to see the latter through, he thought, with less regret than he expected, but the former was within his ability to redress. _Unless..._

Thorin sat up with a wrench, only to fold in pain, a wetness spreading beneath the bandages wound tight around his bare torso as his flesh tore anew, his ribs grinding. He hated the choked scream that clawed its way up out of his throat, so weak, so helpless, when the fates of everyone he cared for were unknown to him. _Do they yet live?_ His vision swam, blackening at the edges. Panting harshly, he fisted his hands in the blankets to keep himself from falling back down onto the bed. _They must..._ A struggle he ultimately lost, like so many others, along with his consciousness, but not before Bofur's hat came into view, bobbing anxiously at his side and presumably safe atop Bofur's head. _One_ , Thorin counted, his relief trailing him into the dark, a bright spark.

When next he woke, it was to Óin's touch, gentle but firm, careful and knowledgeable. _Two._ "—needs to rest. Healing can't be rushed, especially after some fool tears his stitches trying to get up from bed." Though Thorin's ears felt stuffed with wool and his eyelids as heavy as if they were carved of stone, he had no trouble recognizing Óin's exasperated healer's voice, which was so often accompanied by a fearsome scowl at his uncooperative patients. "This Elvish medicine, though... Say what you will about the Elves, they've more skill in the arts physic than any other race." A sigh. "He won't be pleased to owe them his life."

"But he will live," said a second voice, bluntly pragmatic, "and that is all that matters." Suddenly, a rolling laugh, as welcoming as a fire blazing in the hearth on a cold winter's night. _Glóin_ , thought Thorin, warmed. _Three._ "Now I'm sure he'll recover. See how he frowns at being in debt to those..." Sleep dragged him down again.

Not until his third awakening was Thorin truly aware. It was night when he slowly blinked his way into consciousness. He lay in bed still, the off-white fabric of a canvas tent stretched overhead. There was a candle lit on the makeshift table beside him and a quiet presence. What had been a muted ache in his chest had seeped into his limbs and swelled into a gnawing pain, so fierce it robbed Thorin of breath as it crested at every movement, but he turned his head, gritting his teeth against his body's protests. Ori— _four_ —sat on a stool, head bent, engrossed in...

He was knitting, Thorin decided, bemused, long wooden needles dipping deftly as he wove together thick strands of yarn, blue as a robin's egg. Where he had found yarn and needles Thorin could not guess, though he was grateful for it, glad that this youngest member of his company was not so hardened by war that he no longer took pleasure in the soft, steady weft and warp of good wool. Ori's eyes were shadowed, an angry scar running jagged down the left side of his face from temple to chin, and propped on the bed was a pair of crutches.

 _Ori_ , Thorin tried to say, but his mouth was dry, his tongue a numb weight, and he could only manage a pitiful croak. He was heard, nevertheless; Ori's head snapped up, his eyes widening. "You... Y-You're awake!" he stammered, hastily setting his knitting down on the bed so he could flutter both hands over Thorin's bandaged wounds. "Oh, drat it! What did Óin say to do if..." Trailing off, Ori studied the motley array of glasses, jars, and bottles on the table, gaze finally settling on a cup of water, already filled, a pitcher next to it. "Yes, of course!" He scooted his stool closer before holding the cup to Thorin's chapped lips with one hand, the other cradling Thorin's head. "Drink," said Ori, and Thorin obeyed, dazedly wondering when Ori had learned to command like Balin, unyielding as the bulk of the Misty Mountains for all that his tone was courteous and honeyed milk to the ears.

The water helped, and Thorin's mind cleared, though pain frayed his thoughts at the edges. He wanted to ask who else yet lived but, suddenly, he feared, doubts of his own strength touching his heart like icy fingers. Could he bear to hear that Bilbo was dead, his curly head cloven into a red mass of bone and gristle by an orc blade? That Balin and Dwalin, who'd survived the slaughter of Azanulbizar, had fallen? That Fíli or Kíli...

 _Whatever other failings I am guilty of, cowardice has never been one of them._ Thorin was startled by the brush of wool against his knuckles, fleecy and feathery fine; he'd twisted the blankets up until Ori's knitting rested within reach. Weak, he couldn't stop himself from smoothing his hand over the yarn, again and again, the neat rows of stitches looping beneath his palm a small comfort. _I am not my father._ The thought rang hollow. Had he not believed the same about his grandfather's madness? Forcing the words past the lump in his throat, Thorin said, "Ori, tell me what—" He couldn't continue, a cough grating across the underside of his ribs as it pushed the air from his lungs.

Ori, brows drawn together in concentration, was stirring with a spoon the carefully measured contents of several bottles in a glass, the sides of which were stained by repeated use of the thin dark brown syrup. At Thorin's half-finished question, he glanced over, eyes falling on how Thorin's hand lay upon his knitting before darting away back to the foul concoction he no doubt intended to feed Thorin in short order.

"What I'm doing with knitting?" he said, with a nervous laugh. "I'm no good hauling stone with the work crews, you see, having to lug those"—he jerked his head at his crutches—"around. Óin's got me mixin' up medicines for him, and I saw some of the Men are coming down sick with the chills, nothing but the clothes on their backs to wear, so I went lookin' and—what do you know?—there was still yarn fit for knitting, that the moths hadn't eaten all to threads, in one of the lower storage rooms." Another nervous laugh. Ori talked in a rush, words tumbling one over the next, and his voice was high, squeaking, his shoulders hunched up almost to his ears. "Been keepin' busy knitting when Óin's got no use for me, which is most o' the day, to tell it true. A lot of scarves, since those are the quickest to do, even for them too tall Men, some hats, some mittens..."

Thorin frowned. That was not what he meant, and Ori... Letting the technical intricacies of knitting wash over him, Thorin noted how Ori avoided his gaze, head ducked, fingers fidgeting against the glass they held. _And he knows it well._ A cold suspicion grew in his gut—a hard, roiling ball of ill feeling that sent creeping tendrils of unease throughout his body. _What does he seek to hide from me?_ He could not move, could not breathe, dread twining around his chest and limbs, his throat, a strangling vine. Ori's eyes rounded with alarm, and he fumbled to bring the glass to Thorin's lips. "Drink," he said again, less command than plea this time. Thorin would've refused until he had his answers, but Ori whispered, " _Please_ ," and no member of his company should ever have to beg such a thing of him. He drank.

Óin's tonic for fever, aches and pains was as vile as he remembered from the aftermath of his more dangerous youthful follies, bitter and of a strange consistency that was slimy and sticky both at once. Thorin grimaced, fighting not to gag, as Ori fiddled aimlessly with the jars and bottles on the table, rearranging them. _You will not escape me so easily_ , he thought, grimly determined, though not without pity for Ori as the reluctant bearer of what was certainly bad news.

But even as his mouth shaped a demand to know all that had happened since he fell on the battlefield, the heaviness of sleep spread insidiously through his arms and legs. _I've been tricked._ The look of relief on Ori's face was plain despite his increasing muzziness and drooping eyelids.

Right before he lost consciousness— _again_ , a fact he was beginning to resent—the tent flap opened, admitting another visitor. "Ori, Nori told me you'd missed supper, so—" No matter that the voice stopped mid-sentence, Thorin had heard enough to identify the speaker, a little fussy and tone one of motherly concern. Dori made... _Five._ It was a struggle to focus. _And... Nori, too. Six._ Half the Dwarves of his company accounted for. Better than he feared but still so much less than he hoped.

"I couldn't—" Ori's breath hitched. "H-How are we going to tell him?" A sharp twist of worry pierced Thorin's cloudy distance at the hiccuping sounds that came from Ori, soft and stifled. _Tell me what?_ he wondered absently.

Dori padded closer, setting something down on the table. After a long moment, Ori's sobs gentling into sniffles, Dori said only, "Eat your greens, Ori." It was kindly said but sad. And Thorin slept with the ghost of his father's hand upon his head, warm and broad, smoothing over his hair as they talked solemnly of how Mother had gone to stay in the halls of Mahal, father to all their people. _"A beautiful place, my son, grander even than the Mountain, where she shall be waiting, smiling, to welcome us home when the day comes."_

The bright light of the midday sun shone white through the tent fabric when he woke again, alone and feeling irritable. He would not swallow another of Óin's confounded potions—and no amount of pleading would sway him!—until someone told him in no uncertain terms how fared his sister-sons, Master Baggins, and the remaining four members of his company who'd yet to show themselves. Teeth gritted, Thorin built up a blistering head of steam to unleash on his next nursemaid. Which was utterly deflated by the welcome sight of Dwalin's tall, wide-shouldered frame in the entrance, clean-shaven head gleaming proudly.

"Good," said Dwalin with little ado. " 'Bout time you woke." He inspected Thorin with a gimlet eye that he'd learned from their former armsmaster while Thorin stared at Dwalin, thankful that some thoughtful soul had propped him up so he wasn't flat on his back like, Thorin admitted sourly, the invalid he probably was. The pain had receded into a dull ache once more, with the occasional twinge, easily ignored, but this reprieve felt lasting, less a mercy granted to the dying. _And I'll need my strength._ This was Dwalin at his most difficult, scowling fit to send a legion of orcs running for the dank holes they crawled from and ornery as a bear with a sore paw. _Or a mother with cubs to defend._ Thorin nearly smiled at the old jab.

"Dwalin—" Thorin rasped, his breath catching in his throat before he could say more, though what he didn't know. His eyes burned, and he blinked furiously. Besides the addition of a bevy of new scars, thin and faded, across his knuckles, Dwalin was unchanged, as familiar to Thorin as a warm coat worn comfortable by years at his back, shielding him from wind, rain, and snow. He could not bring himself to be the least bit intimidated by Dwalin's black mood or his stomping prowl around the tent, as if checking the corners for spies and assassins.

The bowl of broth that Dwalin thrust into his hands was a surprise, however. It was half filled with the simple soup the healers were fond of—nine parts water, salt, and herbs, one part assorted boiled beans and vegetables ground into a fine paste. There was no spoon.

"Eat." Dwalin nodded at the broth, voice gruff and a challenging glint in his eye. "Balin'll be here soon with business for you to see to." Having apparently said his piece, Dwalin showed Thorin his back and stood like a stone sentinel, arms crossed, glaring, Thorin imagined, at one canvas wall. With a frustrated growl—he would pry no answers from Dwalin now—Thorin tested the weight of the wooden bowl in his hands.

He was weaker than he supposed, arms trembling to lift the bowl the mockingly short distance to his lips when before they'd wielded hammer and sword untiringly for hours. It took all his concentration not to spill the soup. Thorin knew he should be grateful for the first food he'd been able to feed himself in days, maybe weeks, a warming broth that was nourishing as well as tastier by far than Óin's medicines, and that Dwalin hadn't decided to set him a harder task, with a larger bowl or, worse, a full one, contents hotter. But it'd never been in Thorin to be satisfied counting his blessings. His hands clenched around the bowl, shaking, as he fought to tip it high enough to drink the dregs.

When he was finally finished, his strength sapped, he would've dropped the bowl end over end had not firm, callused hands cupped his, steadying his tired fingers against the sanded wood. "You'll do," said Dwalin, tugging the bowl from Thorin's unresisting grasp with a strange, quiet care. Thorin's heart stuttered, remembering a younger Dwalin meticulously cleaning rent armor and broken weapons of blood in the sun-silvered waters of the Kibil-nâla. So that the slain could be accorded all honors upon the funeral pyres, he'd explained, thumb rubbing slow circles over a dent in Fundin's helm, washing away grime until the metal glistened.

"Dwalin, _tell me_ —" But Dwalin had turned towards the entrance. Where, Thorin was startled to see, stood Balin, hair a white halo around his face, his expression grave. Without another word, Dwalin left them, a slump in his usually straight back and the bluff, bracing presence that had filled the tent when he first arrived nowhere in evidence, subdued. He clasped his brother's shoulder momentarily in parting. He did not once glance at Thorin.

Balin seated himself on the stool at Thorin's bedside, movements careful. For all that he was the oldest of Thorin's companions, a promising young councilor, whose talent for diplomacy had already been marked, in the service of Thorin's grandfather when Thorin was but a stripling, Balin had never looked so weary as he did now. His skin was paper-thin in the light, fragile and webbed with cracks, sleepless nights of worry etched in deep lines on his brow and at the pulled down corners of his mouth. Thorin tensed as he waited for the blows to come, his breathing shallow. Balin, at least, spared him the agony of asking again, desperate for even bad news.

More than a week, almost two, had passed since the battle. Thorin had lain unconscious for most of that time—at the advice of the Elven healers who wrested him from death's grip, Balin told him, to lessen the pain of his recovery and the stresses on his mending body—in the camp on the edges of Dale with the other grievously wounded. The bulk of the Elven army and the Men of arms who were still able had removed farther south and west in close pursuit of the fleeing goblins, that had not drowned in the River Running. By Thranduil's latest messengers, they'd driven their routed foe into the marshes about the Forest River, where it was expected the greater part of the fugitives would shortly be slain. The survivors, wrote the Elvenking, were free to make their escape into the trees. There they would be hunted at leisure by the roving forest patrols, if they did not fall prey to Mirkwood's darker denizens first or simply perish of thirst and hunger in the trackless shadows.

While no love did Thorin bear for the Wood Elves or their king, whose haughty voice grated at his patience even heard thirdhand, their hatred for the goblins could not be questioned, burning cold and bitter. Thranduil would not rest until the blades of his warriors had been stained black with the blood of every last goblin in these lands. _Good_ , Thorin thought viciously. On ridding the world of this blight, he and the Elvenking agreed.

Dáin was dead. Fallen in his defense.

His cousin had fought to reach his side, red ax hewing a path through the enemy, when Thorin finally succumbed to the injuries he'd sustained in his final combat with Azog. _May the carrion crows feast on his pale carcass._ Dáin had stood his ground against the pack of wargs that came ravening. Mounted upon their backs was Bolg's guard, orcs of monstrous size wielding steel scimitars, tasked by Bolg with retrieving his father's body and taking the head of his father's killer. One after another, orc and warg died beneath Dáin's ax, until he was spattered black from iron helm to iron-shod boots. He bled from dozens of cuts, large and small, swaying on his feet in hurt or exhaustion or both, when Bolg himself dealt the fatal blow.

Thorin had been saved the same fate and Dáin avenged by Beorn. The skinchanger had appeared unlooked for, in his bear shape, and crushed Bolg with a single snap of his great jaws, his wrath a living thing that doubled, trebled his size until he seemed a giant. He bore Thorin to safety out of the fray, then swiftly returned to it, the tide of the battle turning.

The goblins, now leaderless and with Beorn moving unopposed through their ranks like a scythe through ripe wheat, broke formation, scattering in all directions, seized by a senseless terror. And so began the relentless chase of many days. Thorin listened in amazement as Balin recounted what was already becoming known among the more poetically inclined Men as the Battle of Five Armies. Never would he have guessed that isolated, reclusive Beorn would rush to the rescue of the beleaguered armies of Elves, Men, and Dwarves. Nor that the Eagles would marshal their forces and fly from their eyries high in the Misty Mountains with numbers not seen since the Elder Days. _Truly, worthy deeds that will live long, celebrated in tale and song._ It was reckoned by some that fully three-quarters of the Wilderland's orcs and goblins had been put to the sword, though Balin felt that overoptimistic.

As for Dáin, Thorin found that, saddened as he was by his cousin's death, he was not grieved. Durin's heirs had ever died hard and often young in this darkening age, and Dáin had not gone quietly but standing tall, his bloodied ax in hand, the bodies of his slain foes strewn at his feet like so much chopped kindling in a deed that would be told and retold over many a tankard of ale in many a hall, inn, and tavern. _Durin's folk will see to that_ , thought Thorin. _And Beorn tells of how Dáin lived to see his vengeance upon Bolg._ Thorin hoped Dáin had breathed his last knowing that the day was won and Erebor reclaimed for their people.

"Dáin lay in state for three days in the upper audience chamber," reported Balin, "which, fortunately, was in need of no more than a thorough scrubbing and replacement of the hangings with some Nori had dug up out of storage." Thorin remembered that room, a smaller version of the Gallery of Kings on the lower levels, generally used for more intimate occasions when the King Under the Mountain was hosting his closest kinsmen, and deemed it fitting. "The Company took turns standing the watches as honor guard, alongside Dáin's surviving captains."

"And what arrangements have been made for Dáin's burial?" Thorin asked. He would gladly see his cousin laid to rest deep beneath the Mountain but was uncertain whether Dáin's widow and son—his namesake, Thorin dimly realized—would prefer that their fallen lord be brought home to the Iron Hills that he'd ruled for over a century and Náin and Grór before him.

Balin's ear, as always, did not miss the unspoken. "Dáin's wish was to be entombed beside his father and grandfather," he said. "An escort of twenty-four left a week past to bear his body back to the Iron Hills." Of the some six hundred Dwarves Dáin had led, a third had fallen on the field of battle and been buried under stone cairns in the eastern foothills of the Mountain, from where they could greet the dawn each morning and gaze homewards.

The enemy dead were yet being cleared from the ruins of Dale in their thousands and consigned by the cartload to the cleansing flames of a mass pyre far downwind of the camp. Burning day and night, the fires had been started with and were fed from Erebor's vast stores of lamp oil rather than the precious little wood that survived in the Desolation. These unlikely trees included stunted apple orchards that Bard nonetheless hoped might one spring blossom again and fruit.

Another overoptimistic view of the future, perhaps, but no one begrudged the Lakemen their plans to resettle Dale. Not with hundreds of husbands, fathers, and sons upon the slow funeral barges that were rafted down the River Running by the Elves, who had no small number of their own slain to lay to rest in the cool shade of their beloved beeches. Balin's voice cracked when he spoke of the dirges the Elves sang as they went about their solemn duty. An unearthly sound it was, he told Thorin, eyes distant. Their fair immortal voices carried over the water, clear as cut crystal and rounded smooth, the lilting, weaving notes of the melody lingering in the air long after they'd passed, like a ringing of silver bells in an empty room walled in seamless, flawless stone. The work crews would stop to listen, even the Dwarves, who mourned in silence by custom. Their songs were meant for the living alone, whether raucous drinking tunes or melancholy hymns full of memory.

Shaking his head and refocusing, Balin continued, "The work crews have made quick progress clearing the barricade and debris from the front entrance and hall. From surveys of the adjoining rooms, we will not be without sound shelter this winter, but the damage done to the treasure chambers and foundries by Smaug while pursuing us is... considerable."

Then, incredibly, a hint of a smile, frail and tremulous, curled in Balin's beard. Thorin was heartened to see this slightest sign that his old friend's sly humor was not lost. "The gold plating the floor in the Gallery of Kings must be removed, as well, of course. It is far too soft a metal to stand wear and a distracting temptation besides to every visitor who would make off with a chunk or two." Thorin grimaced at that, feeling chagrined, though he could hardly be blamed for not thinking of the cleanup at the time, a live and _angry_ dragon at his heels.

Expression grave once again, Balin said, "There is also some... dissatisfaction among Dáin's followers." At Thorin's sharp glance, he added hastily, "They are all of them loyal Dwarves and true—of that, there can be no doubt—and they are agreed that, had a bargain not been struck with Bard, leaving the Arkenstone in the hands of those who'd come by it against the king's will and laid siege to the Mountain... Those were insults that could not be borne." Balin paused, stroking his beard in what Thorin had learned years ago was a nervous gesture. "But since the battle, there has been much converse between the armies, and having heard of events in Laketown and of the parley before the gates from the Men, many have begun to wonder how it is that the Arkenstone found its way to Bard and _why_."

Thorin rubbed a weak hand over his face. _And so the mistakes of the past continue to haunt me._ His fears were realized when Balin finished, "There are murmurings, though quiet still, of Thrór's name and of Thráin's. And of the folly of the march on Khazad-dûm, his opposition to which Dáin has never sought to hide."

Dwalin and Glóin had both been privately furious at Dáin's refusal to support Thorin's quest, holding his decision to be cowardly, borderline treasonous, and Balin disappointed, if not surprised. While Thorin had hoped for more than a promise of reinforcements should he prove successful, neither could he condemn Dáin's caution. Unlike all his cousins but Thorin himself, Dáin had to look first and foremost to his people. The Dwarves of the Iron Hills had answered an exiled King Under the Mountain's call to arms before and mustered their strength to reclaim an ancestral home long lost to a terrible evil...

 _To meet with failure and death._ Thrór, Thráin, Frerin, Fundin—they were not the only losses the House of Durin suffered that day. Náin, too, had fallen, leading a score of warriors on a sortie that reached the very doorstep of Moria. None but his son lived. And of what he saw in Moria's black depths, Dáin refused to speak, save for once the morning after the battle, his face gray, to counsel that entering Khazad-dûm be put from their minds. _"Within the shadows, a greater shadow waits for us still that cannot be overcome by any power of ours."_

 _Durin's Bane_ , Thorin mused. The ancient foe that had driven them in flame and smoke from their great kingdom, lurking in the darkness. _Just as Smaug did. And not by Dwarves was the dragon slain._ That his part was less one of hero than that of villain was a bitter realization. His surety in the rightness of his actions had burned fever-hot through every fiber of his being when he treated with his enemies at the gates, his grandfather's crown heavy upon his head, but now he doubted, wondering whether that fire was fueled by greed instead of outrage.

When three days and three nights had gone with no sign of the dragon, a premonition of Smaug's fate crept into Thorin's heart, the silhouette of the windlance against a leaden sky clear in his mind and the grim visage of Girion's heir, hands steady as he peered down the length of an arrow at what had so unexpectedly washed up on the banks of the Forest River. Bilbo argued then that one or two of the Company should be sent to Laketown to see how matters stood there. Glóin had offered to make the daylong trip, as had Bifur and Bombur, but Thorin dissuaded them, saying that he needed their eyes to search for the Arkenstone, without which he had not the authority to summon the clans unchallenged to Erebor's defense, whether against Smaug or the treasure seekers who'd rob them of all that their people had labored to build once word spread that the dragon's hoard lay unguarded.

"We can do nothing for them now," he'd said gently to Bilbo and Glóin's worried faces, Bifur and Bombur at their sides in silent support. "Let us finish the task we set out to do and make safe the Mountain. If"—fear for Fíli and Kíli threatened to choke him but, no, _no_ , he refused to believe his sister-sons dead—"they live still, they will know to come here."

After a tense moment, Glóin nodded reluctantly, Bifur and Bombur deferring to his judgment, as well; Bilbo was pale, lips pressed into a thin, unhappy line, but he did not ask of Laketown or of those left behind again. Their discontent showed only in how, though they scoured the heaps of gold and silver, gems, and other precious things for the Arkenstone with Thorin, when time came to rest, they climbed the ramparts above the main gates in unspoken agreement and looked southwards. Visible on the horizon past the ruins of Dale was the blue smear of Long Lake, a hazy plume of smoke rising above it.

Part of Thorin wanted to join them in their vigil, hands flat on the parapet so he could lean out, eyes straining for a glimpse of Fíli's bright hair, Kíli at his brother's side. Walking with a bit of a limp, perhaps, but unaided and growing stronger with each step towards home. But Thorin would not allow himself the comfort of clinging to his hopes. Not when he had a kingdom to secure for them all.

And so he spent his waking hours in the treasure chambers, sifting through his grandfather's vast wealth—his, now—handful by handful, stopping only to eat and sleep, his gaze still hunting for a fugitive glimmer of radiant white as he chewed his meals of tasteless _cram_ and his bed an uncomfortable one of gold. He found many a wondrous example of his people's craft but never that most valuable jewel he sought. As more and more time passed with the Arkenstone remaining hidden from his sight, a knot of anger twisted in his chest, until he raked through the gold piled atop glittering gold, hands claws. Had he not done enough? Suffered enough sorrows and been denied enough in the hardscrabble years following Erebor's loss? Why then, after he'd at last reclaimed his grandfather's halls, was this affirmation of his victory and right to rule withheld from him?

Balin had tried once to draw him away from his increasingly feverish search; Thorin, to his shame, could not recall what he'd said, except that it'd been undeservingly harsh, accusing. More than once, he caught Bilbo standing on a ledge or staircase above, watching him with dark eyes, face tense and one hand in his pocket, the other fisted at his side. _Was that when I lost his trust?_ He'd felt abandoned by his company, though in truth they were at his side no matter their reservations, and convinced himself that none but his closest kin, his heirs, could understand.

Yet when Fíli and a healed Kíli finally arrived, Bofur, Óin, and two armies at their heels, barely had the joyous greetings been exchanged before Thorin found himself at odds with them both. While they would never be so disrespectful as to flout their king's commands, it was clear that their wills were matched against their uncle's.

Fíli implored Thorin to hear Bard out, that the honor of a man who'd open his home—for no other reason than that Kíli was hurt, when everybody else had turned them away—to the companions of one he'd recently and publicly quarreled with could be trusted. But Thorin knew his nephew well, and what he saw in Fíli's eyes, so like Frerin's, was guilt. Fíli's own acute sense of honor would demand repayment of the debt he felt was owed Bard. For the orcs they'd led unwittingly to his children, for his slaying of Smaug, and for his later warning that they leave before the Master of Laketown roused sentiment against them. Thorin, however, denied that a few good deeds, the chiefest of which was as much self-serving as it was selfless, excused the affront of leading an army to another's home with the intent of thievery.

Worse was Kíli. Who dared suggest that the Elves might have come arrayed for war on behalf of their allies, the Men of Esgaroth, rather than seeing them for the opportunistic robbers they were, whose sole aim was to loot a treasure they had no claim to. "They are not without compassion, Uncle," Kíli had said quietly, and Thorin could not help but suspect that the redheaded she-Elf who saved Kíli's life had also bewitched him, ensnared with her enchantments his youthful spirit that loved all things seemingly fair and brave. Even if Thorin had been able to believe that one singular Elf could shed the disdain of her race to care for a mortal, much less a Dwarf, it was Thranduil who marched on their gates, and the Elvenking's heart was as ice, as hard and gleaming cold as the white gems he so coveted. He would not hesitate to use the plight of the Men to win his prize, exploiting Thorin's mercy and generosity.

Kíli had listened as Thorin instructed him on the realities of their situation, a stubborn set to his jaw, then said, "So you would deny the Lakemen aid until they come to us as beggars? You once told us of how the Elves refused our people succor when we were homeless and starving, yet you would be no better should you turn from those in need now because, having lost much, they would not sacrifice their pride, too." His voice had risen, his eyes flashing with the temper that was so like Thorin's own, which stirred in response. "And why should they? When, where _we_ have failed and failed again, _they_ killed the dragon that would've come back to kill _you!_ "

Thorin's expression must have been terrible in his wrath, sudden as a spring storm, for Kíli almost quailed, before tipping his chin up, defiant. Now, the memory made Thorin queasy, wishing he could hide his face until he was alone again but knowing he hadn't the strength, his arm trembling. Letting his hand fall back down onto the blankets, he stared at his open palm. He did not like to think that he was the type who'd strike his kin in anger, but he'd been gripped then by a convulsion of emotion such as he'd never felt except in the heat of battle, his blood boiling at a threat to what was his. Fíli had stepped between Thorin and Kíli, head bowed.

"Forgive my brother his hasty words, Uncle," he'd said. "We made all speed to reach you with this news, and he is overtired, weak still from his sickness." Kíli swallowed and looked away, teeth gritted, but did not protest. At Thorin's nod, Fíli continued, "We shall, as ever, abide by your will in this and all matters of state." There was a distance in Fíli's voice, a polite deference that named Thorin _king_ and a stranger.

 _Amends_ , he thought. _I must make amends._ What had become of his vow, sworn as he watched, helpless, Thrór pay more mind to his treasure than to his kingdom, not to fall prey to the same madness? Yet here he was, in his grandfather's place, Fíli and Kíli cast in his, though bolder than he ever was. His stomach lurched again. He still didn't know if Fíli and Kíli were well. _If they lived..._ No, he refused to believe his sister-sons dead. He would see Fíli's bright hair at the tent entrance one morning, Kíli at his brother's side, to wake him with twin grins of delight, their youth tempered but untarnished. The half-remembered sound of Ori crying softly at his bedside echoed in his ears, mocking.

"—deal your treasure well, honoring all contracts, and that the Dwarves of the Iron Hills will receive weregild for their blood, reward for their fealty." Thorin blinked; Balin had been advising him on the appeasement of Dáin's followers, his face expectant, as Thorin wandered lost in the past. _I have failed enough in my duty._ He set aside his worries for Fíli and Kíli with a wrench, their absence like a missing limb, and forced himself to consider what he knew of the Iron Hills.

"Many of those who fled Erebor settled in the Iron Hills," he said slowly, "and are welcome to return or stay as they wish. I will not refuse the service of any Dwarf who seeks to restore the Mountain to its former glory, and the lords of the Iron Hills can expect seats on my council, as befits their rank and our kinship." Dáin's political skill, which had always been subtler and lighter in touch than Thorin's, was going to be much missed in the days to come. "Though... I do not think such rich deposits of ore should be abandoned. The steelsmiths of the Iron Hills are without equal, and I would see both realms attain the prosperity of old, before the shadow of the dragon darkened the Mountain's slopes, when the Dwarves of Erebor and markets of Dale were ever glad to have the works of Grór's people."

Balin nodded his approval, and Thorin let out a breath he hadn't realized he'd been holding. "I'll send a raven at once," said Balin. They'd been fortunate to find the birds still roosting in the guardpost on the heights of Ravenhill. Despite the great age of some of the ravens—one large bird in particular was bald and partially blind, flapping ponderously among the rocks—they'd proved reliable messengers to the Iron Hills, bringing Dáin in the nick of time.

For the barest moment, Balin hesitated, eyes sliding away from Thorin. "There are a few other matters that I fear cannot wait—" As if to make up for his lapse, Balin's tone was brisk and no-nonsense when he resumed, but Thorin did not think him surprised so much as resigned when he stopped Balin mid-sentence with a raised hand.

He frowned at Balin's pinched look. Stubborn and independent-minded as Dwarves were on the whole—heads as hard as the stone of their halls, according to some—loyalty to family and clan was the foundation of their culture, wound through their very bones and sinews from birth. While internecine power struggles marred the annals of Elves and Men, that was not the way of the Dwarves. To be King of Durin's Folk was to be as a father to all Durin's descendants, the eldest brother of seven, and whatever squabbles might arise between siblings or parent and child, there could be no open strife between kin, for that was the worst of wars. On this, every Dwarf agreed. _Even Grandfather._

"We have bled for you and will again," Dáin had said to him before they parted where Durin the Deathless first marveled at the stars mirrored in the waters of the Kheled-zâram. And there had been nothing grudging in his cousin's voice nor in the strong clasp of Dáin's hand on his arm. No tinge of accusation, as in the farewells of the Dwarves from the clans farther east, bitter for their losses. How grateful he was then for Dáin's grounding presence! The name Oakenshield settling like a mantle about his shoulders, heavy with the gazes of those who saw upon his head his grandfather's crown, and grief lodged in his chest, sharp and tearing, he'd found that he could breathe easier in the knowledge that this most influential of his kin, of the line to which the kingship would pass should Thrór's fail, still stood stalwart beside Durin's heir despite the ills that had befallen them.

 _And so he spoke truly_ , Thorin thought with a pang. It was difficult to credit that Dwarves sworn to Dáin would show so little regard for how his cousin felt in life, causing trouble beyond grumbling. _For what else could give Balin such anxiety?_ Veteran of countless hundreds of council room battles, some of which had near ended with an ax embedded in the table or a fellow councilor's thick skull, Balin was acting skittish as a lad upon the eve of his first skirmish, restless fingers smoothing one tail of his beard, then the other. "Have you another suggestion?" Thorin asked mildly.

"I..." Balin swallowed, head bowing as if the weight was suddenly too much for his neck. "There is another way to ease tensions, but..." His words were halting, choked with an emotion that Thorin feared to name. This was more personal than ensuring good relations with the Dwarves of the Iron Hills, and part of Thorin shied at the realization, an icy hand squeezing his heart. _I am not my father._ After a pause that stretched like a fraying rope between them, neither willing to let go, Balin said weakly, "It is... a delicate matter that can wait for a later time." He struggled to meet Thorin's eyes, and when he did, it was with a silent plea.

Thorin's throat was dry, and his tongue felt swollen, stuck to the roof of his mouth. He could press Balin for answers, he knew, as he'd meant to with Ori and with Dwalin, but... He was not ready. "Very well, Balin." Not ready to learn that... He ruthlessly cut the thought off.

Immediately, there was a relief of pressure in his chest, but it only left him sickened, wanting to retch as the growing hiss in his ears— _coward, you coward_ —slithered around his neck like a noose, tightening. "What more is there to see to?" he demanded, hating how desperate he sounded. Balin didn't flinch at his clipped tone, merely nodding and continuing, his mask of composure fixed firmly back in place.

"The Arkenstone"—something in Thorin shivered at the name, the music in it calling to him despite everything—"is still in Bard's possession, and he would return it to you before he leaves for Laketown on the morrow." Longing punched him hard in the gut, driving the breath from him. Though he was dimly aware of Balin watching him closely, the glow of the Arkenstone, the Heart of the Mountain, was blinding in his mind's eye, streaming white through his fingers and limned in flickering arcs of color, rainbows trapped in crystal. He tensed. His hands burned with the phantom sensation of gold coins sliding clinking over his skin, cold metal warming at his touch, and a furious panic clawed at his insides, crying _where, where is it_.

But a voice sought him out in the dark beneath the Mountain, where all that shone was gold. _"Thorin!"_ It was Bilbo. He looked at Thorin with beseeching eyes, his hair whipped into tangles by a gust of wind. _"Thorin, I... did not mean,_ want _to betray you, but... But you are not yourself! Would you have us and your, your cousin, when he gets here, die for a, a_ rock _that's not needed anymore?"_ Why was Bilbo backing away from him? _"The dragon is dead! The Mountain is yours! You..."_ Bilbo, with his clever mind and his courageous heart, large enough to hold thirteen Dwarves, was not made to sound so small, no matter his slight frame. _"You have a_ home _again, Thorin, and your family, maybe friends, if you would just bend a little. Isn't that worth all the treasure in Erebor?"_ The question was a wavering one, uncertain. And Thorin saw his own hands, fingers hooked into talons, reach for Bilbo and the bared curve of his neck, outlined against the sky.

His eyes snapped open at the brush of a hand against his shoulder. "Thorin," Balin said gently, "do you need to rest?" He was panting harshly, a thin film of sweat cooling on his brow; he shivered. Balin fretted beside him, but the memory of Bilbo struggling in his grasp as Thorin dragged him to the edge of the ramparts, intending to cast him down the sheer face of the Mountain to join the other thieves at the gates, was nearer still. _I would've smiled to hear him scream._ Would've been glad to see Bard's expression of shock and the Elvenking's when that body, the size of a child's, landed at their feet in a crumple of broken bones. "We can—"

" _No._ " Had he been stronger, his guilt and shame not crushing him like a vise, he would've shouted his denial. "No, we do this _now_." His nails dug into the palms of his clenched hands; Thorin hoped they cut deep. Bloody crescents that might scar into reminders of what he deserved.

The Arkenstone had been a beacon in the yawning vastness of the first King Under the Mountain's great hall, drawing every eye to it and the throne upon which it spilled its light most brightly, but Bilbo was right. Possession of a rock, though the finest, rarest jewel ever mined from the earth, did not make one fit to wear a crown. Honor, compassion, fairness of judgment and dedication to duty, love enough not to risk people and kingdom for the cause of petty pride—such were the marks of a ruler whose rule was wise and just. When had his grandfather forgotten that? _And when did I?_

Exhaustion was beginning to weigh down his limbs, pain stabbing behind his eyes. Perhaps, he thought, mirthlessly, his head would burst like an overripe tomato, sparing him this scouring of his sins. Balin's look of concern had not diminished; he needed to regain control of himself. "Bard is in camp?" Thorin asked, seeking a distraction and not a little surprised. He did not take Bard for a man who'd send the soldiers under his command to chase after orcs and goblins without him. There was but one possibility in Thorin's mind. "How badly was he injured?"

While Balin stared at him in a pointed statement of who else had required the services of the healers, he did not refuse Thorin an answer, for which he was grateful. He'd rather hear of Bard's troubles than Bilbo's wet gasp as the soft flesh of his belly parted on the edge of Thorin's sword, Thorin pulling him close, his labored breathing a stutter in Thorin's ear, to pluck the Arkenstone from his pocket. _A lie. I did not..._ The butchered meat that slid from his blade was not worth even a last glance; he had eyes only for the Arkenstone, _oh_ , the Arkenstone, red and slippery in his hands, _finally_. "Tell me of Bard," he said hoarsely, swallowing bile.

Bard had indeed been wounded, but not badly enough, it seemed, for his enforced inactivity to sit well. A cleanly broken arm and bruised ribs had kept him from joining the pursuit; the morning after the battle, he could not don his coat without blanching, unable to hide how much he hurt. The Elvenking himself drugged the man into insensibility, or so Balin heard, then set an Elven guard on him, with strict instructions not to let him travel farther than Dale and certainly not to Laketown, as he wished to when he woke, angry and agitated.

"He was... insistent that he had to return to his children," said Balin, gaze dropping to his knees, where his hands curled loosely. Thorin wondered whether he, too, recalled the high, sweet voice of the girl who'd welcomed them into Bard's home, cramped and roughly built but warm, by asking if they would bring her family luck. "Not until he spoke with Thranduil's couriers did he consent to rest."

 _Dragonfire and ruin._ Thorin kneaded the ridge of his nose. _That is all I've brought the Men of the Lake._ He'd excused his dismissal of Bard's claims as the only response a king could give to men who would steal by force of arms what should be asked for. Yet would he have honored his promise of gold enough to rebuild Esgaroth ten times over had the Elves retreated, the Men laid down their weapons? He did not know...

Thorin scoffed. _I was reluctant to pay the cost of a few boats, weapons, and ill-fitting clothes._ Nor could he blame Bard for his lack of trust, for Kíli was right, and Thorin had spit on Thranduil's word after the Elves showed themselves indifferent to his people's suffering. The same callousness he'd shown the Lakemen, consumed by his search for the Arkenstone, in the week of silence following Smaug's death. _And..._ The Elvenking did not wake the beast and point it towards its unsuspecting victims, filled with ire. Thorin closed his eyes, wincing, hand rubbing weakly over his face. Why had he tried to deny all responsibility for the failure of his plans? What had he been _thinking?_

Short were the lives of Men and their vision limited, that of poor men even more so, easily swayed by sweet talk in the present but blind to the inevitabilities of the future. Smaug was cruel and capricious, bowing to no master, except perhaps his own greed. Laketown had always been at the mercy of a monster notorious for having none, whether the attack came in a year or generations later. _But it was I who chose_ these _people, in_ this _time to bear Smaug's wrath._

Was there not a single deed to his name in the fortnight before the battle that was _right_ , wholly and truly? He could not blame all on the dragon sickness either, for he had been himself, just the worst parts, stripped of nobility; Bilbo was wrong about that.

"Let him keep that cursed stone." The words were as much a shock to Thorin as they were to Balin, interrupting an account of Bard's walking surveys of Dale, shadowed by a watchful Elf. But the longer Thorin considered the idea, the more he felt it to be _right_. "May it bring him better fortune than me and mine."

What good had the Arkenstone done Thrór, stoking his desire for gold until pride became arrogance? _Or me?_ King and kingdom both would be the stronger without the delusion that whoever held a _rock_ , treacherous for all its beauty and allure, was somehow ordained to rule and beyond question. It would be hard to win the acceptance of his people for this, though Erebor's wealth was his to divide, the Arkenstone being no exception. Bard could, however, be convinced quicker than any Dwarf to rid everyone of the ill-fated jewel, Thorin judged, willing as he'd been to exchange it for practical gold and silver.

Balin had stilled. He cleared his throat and, expression neutral, said carefully, "Do you not intend to honor your bargain with Bard?" For a moment, Thorin was confused. Then he groaned, slumping tiredly. He'd forgotten that not only had Bard asked for a ransom but that he had agreed to pay it. For the Arkenstone's return. A fourteenth of the dragon's hoard, excluding gems, he remembered. Bilbo's contracted share of the quest's profits.

"No, I did not mean..." Suddenly, Thorin laughed, low and bitter, at this irony. When he had wanted nothing in the world so keenly as the Arkenstone, it eluded him, remaining tauntingly out of his reach in the hands of others, but now that he'd gladly see it lost to some far corner of Rhûn or the depths of the sea, events were conspiring to force it into his possession. He could not even say that this farce was unexpected; his life of late had seemed one endless series of such humbling lessons.

"Bard shall have his due," Thorin finally said, voice a rasp. _And more_ , he thought, for it'd been out of spite alone that he'd denied Bard any of the innumerable gems scattered amidst the gold and silver, often wrought into fine jewelry, arms and armor, tableware. "Have the gold sorted to send to Laketown. As much as Bard requires, though"—Thorin winced again; the survivors of Smaug's attack would be lucky to have food and shelter enough to stave off death this winter—"offer to him the continued use of Erebor's vaults to keep safe his share of the treasure. The Arkenstone..." He had not the will to fight anymore. "I would be pleased to receive it from him," he lied, defeated.

"I'll let Bard know," said Balin, eyes worried as he searched Thorin's face. "Now, I think it would be best for you to rest until supper." Balin had the air of one who'd come to a difficult decision and was hurrying to see it through before he could change his mind. "We can speak again later." He studiously avoided Thorin's gaze as he made to rise from his seat.

"Balin." He was not ready. But neither did Thorin want to cling to his hopes any longer. They were a thin comfort, _false_ , dread coiling in the pit of his stomach like a serpent waiting to strike. "Tell me of the Company." Balin sighed, almost inaudibly, the frown lines at the corners of his mouth deepening. In the sag of his shoulders, the stiffness of his spine, Thorin read reluctance... and grief—a bottomless well of it. "If the news is ill," he said, the words lodging in his throat, "I would rather hear it sooner than later."

He felt brittle as hardened steel left in the cold, invisible fractures webbing his skin, but he straightened and firmed his expression into one of grim resolve. Sheer bravado, he knew, weakness thrumming through his veins, and it did not fool Balin. With a silent curse at being bedridden—he would not be able to catch Balin by the arm or follow should he choose to flee—Thorin surrendered what little pride remained to him and begged. "Balin, _please_." Looking stricken and unutterably weary, Balin nodded.

At first, the news was good. Bofur, Óin and Glóin, Dori, Nori, and Ori—Balin confirmed that they all lived and were well, healing in Ori's case from a broken ankle. Óin had taken charge of the wounded, consulting closely with the Elven healers who stayed when Thranduil marched with most of his strength, and Glóin was managing the sorting of the treasure, which had started the very next day after the battle in anticipation of Thorin honoring his bargain with Bard. No Dwarf spent more than a few hours at a time with the gold, however, Balin assured him, not even Glóin.

Everybody was arranged into shifts instead that rotated daily between repair work on the Mountain's stone halls, supply and salvage, kitchen duties, guard patrols, and burial details. Bombur ruled meal preparations with an iron ladle, by the accounts of his cowed helpers, Bifur and Bofur aiding and abetting his culinary reign of terror, when they weren't hauling stone to erect the new support columns in the entrance hall. Dori could frequently be found caring for Óin's patients, not least because Ori was among them, but was just as often at Nori's side as he cleared and appraised the contents of Erebor's countless storage rooms, marked and hidden. And Dwalin's sadistic glee at startling inattentive sentries at their posts was fast becoming legend, he and Dáin's captains determined to keep the camp in readiness for attack by the goblin stragglers reported to have fled east.

"Bilbo is well, running messages for me," Balin said, and Thorin breathed a sigh of relief, a knot under his sternum loosening. "He was missing on the battlefield for half a day before one of the Men found him. And he got a bit knocked about on the head." When Thorin tensed in alarm, seeing curls of hair red with blood, Balin added hastily, "Which is by now _quite_ healed, upon the word of Óin, Gandalf, _and_ the Elves."

 _Has he asked after me? Been to see me?_ The questions were on the tip of his tongue; Thorin bit down on them. Bilbo would be well within his rights to demand that Thorin never speak to him again, never again come into his sight. He closed his eyes—they were stinging—and tried to reconcile himself to the loss of a friendship that, though short and troubled, much of it his own doing, had been alight with the fragile promise of something good and lasting.

 _"I do believe the worst is behind us."_ That dawn upon the Carrock had been lovelier than any in more years than Thorin cared to count. Forgotten was the pain of his wounds, Azog's hated face, sneering at him as trees flamed around them like torches in the night, when the sunrise touched the Lonely Mountain's peak with rosy fingers. They descended the rocks, singing, the blue dome of the sky brightening above them and hope high in their hearts, and Bilbo was close by his side then, a shy smile tucked into the corners of his mouth, the cheer of the Company, even Gandalf's grumbling, enfolding them. But there were shadows waiting for them at the foot of the mountains, a chill mist hanging in the air, and the darkness of Mirkwood, the waters of Long Lake, and finally the echoing halls of Erebor had been colder still, cold as gold sliding over his skin.

"Thorin." The sound of his name was jarring despite Balin's gentle tone. "Bilbo sits with you every night, after Óin's tonic has put you to sleep. We usually have to come here to wake him in the mornings." Humbled anew, Thorin stared blinking at the blankets, imagining Bilbo's hand, soft except for tentative calluses from Sting, curled atop them next to his. "He's afraid you haven't forgiven him for the Arkenstone." Balin's voice was filled with affection and exasperation, as was the gaze he turned on Thorin as Thorin sat stunned into speechlessness. _How could Bilbo think that, when I nearly killed him in my madness?_

"It is _I_ who must ask _his_ forgiveness," said Thorin. He glanced uncertainly at Balin, his heart a trapped moth in his throat. "Will he see me? To talk?" If Bilbo refused to allow him to make amends... He didn't know what he would do.

"Aye, I reckon he will." Balin's smile was small but reassuring, and the fluttering settled in his chest as if he'd caught the moth in his cupped hands, delicate wings a tickle against his palms. _I can take back my words and deeds at the gates._ Though their friendship may be nothing more than memory, he and Bilbo could part in kindness, and for that Thorin was grateful.

For a while, there was silence, unbroken except for the faint noises of camp beyond the tent. Thorin was no fool, no matter how badly he'd acted one; he hadn't failed to note whose names Balin had not mentioned. Perhaps one or the other was grievously wounded and had yet to wake, the hopes of recovery dwindling with every passing day. Perhaps both had been maimed, lost limbs or senses or wits. _Perhaps..._

But, no, the hollowness that grew in him as he again saw sorrow's hand heavy upon Balin told him otherwise. "What of Fíli? Kíli?" He managed to keep his voice level until the end, when Balin looked away, swallowing a choked sob, as clear an answer as anything he could've said.

Fíli was dead. Kíli was dead.

And Thorin felt nothing. Distantly, he heard how his breathing hitched, the pounding tempo of his heart erratic. It grated at his ears like a dull file across the pitted bone of his skull, and he wished he could be rid of the sound. The cot he lay on, nestled in a cocoon of bedding, was too warm and too soft, the light that seeped through the tent's canvas walls too bright, blurring the world until there was not a sharp edge anywhere to match that of the knife carving him open from throat to navel. He felt _nothing_.

Deep beneath the Mountain, there were chambers where the walls, floor, and even ceiling were inlaid with patterned bands of gold and truesilver, scenes of the world and the storied history of the Dwarves graven on the panels between by the finest stonemasons of the kingdom. Gems would flash by torchlight, tens of thousands of mirrors, each no larger than the head of a pin, but it was usually dark and quiet. Thorin wanted to stretch out on his back upon one of those smooth floors and just... _sleep_. Until his body was as cold as it was numb.

It'd been summer still when they left the Blue Mountains, the trees adorned in their richest green and autumn no more than a teasing nip in the air before each day dawned hotter than the last. Thorin would turn north on the Greenway to attend a gathering of their kin, but he and his sister-sons planned to journey together until Bree, where they expected to meet Gandalf and the rest of the Company, scattered on errands.

Kíli had been struggling to contain his excitement, Thorin remembered, at setting out on what he was sure would be the grandest adventure of his young life; he'd never been farther east than Dunland in the south, and the horror of the dragon paled in comparison to the prospect of seeing with his own eyes the Lonely Mountain of his childhood tales, its splendid halls and immense wealth. Fíli clearly felt that the momentous occasion deserved solemnity but found his brother's enthusiasm hard to resist and, before long, Thorin was beginning to dread the many leagues to Bree.

Charming and beautiful in her best clothes, their mother smiled and laughed at their antics, a sparkling net in her dark hair. As the hour came to part, she sternly commanded them to be mindful of their uncle's orders and to wear their cloaks in rain—with the hood up, Kíli—to sit close to the fire, eat well and sleep well, not let the other engage in any foolishness... before drawing each of her sons into a hug that seemed as if it didn't want to let them go.

To Thorin, she had given only her blessing, the press of her lips on the crown of his bowed head light but lingering, and a wish for the success of his quest. When he made to promise her that he would deliver her sons to her safe, she hushed him, still smiling, and deftly put him on the road, Fíli and Kíli waiting impatiently for him to join them as the sun climbed higher in the cloudless sky.

"Dís..." When he turned back, however, as his feet took him out of view over the crest of a hill, he'd caught the slump in her shoulders as she walked slowly home, her lone figure small against the looming mass of the mountains. "Has word been sent?"

He hardly recognized his own voice. Though unchanged in pitch, it had been leeched of all color, pulled and twisted into a thin thread of sound that Thorin could only be glad didn't tremble as his hands were. Frowning at his traitorous fingers, he spread his palms flat on the tense muscle of his thighs, brittle bone beneath, until the twitching urge to claw at his hair, at his face passed.

Balin looked at him like Thorin was a wounded animal, worry warring with pity in his eyes and grief a shroud over both. He hesitated, then said quietly, "Thorin—"

"Has word been sent to my sister?" Thorin cut him off, tone biting. He did not want, _deserve_ , anyone's sympathy. He, who had come home once before without father and brother, had now cost Dís her sons, too, and was _not worthy_ , not a fit object for any feeling but her anger. Something in him shifted at the thought, a muscle tearing loose from tendons and bone, maybe, or a ripped vein gushing with every beat of his heart, draining him and filling him at the same time with blood, thick and choking— _no_ , he was _not_ hurt. He must remember that.

"No..." Balin whispered, shaking his head. "No, the ravens can't..." He didn't finish, wilting under Thorin's flinty stare. Balin meant well, Thorin knew, probably hoping to soften the blow in that deceptive way all good diplomats had of diverting the mind with meaningless pleasantries. But the world had cracked into pieces at his feet, and there was no sense in charades anymore. Not when he had seen to the rotten core of things, victory shorn of joy.

"Dwalin will leave before the snows to escort Lady Dís to Erebor in the spring," Balin finally said, speech smooth but eyes averted, "and Glóin and Bombur with him to fetch their families." He glanced at Thorin, then away again, shoulders rounding like rock beaten by water. "We thought... you might wish to send with Dwalin a letter or..."

"Yes..." Thorin mumbled, tongue swollen in his mouth. "A letter..." Ink bleeding black across yellowed parchment—Thorin could not envision words capable of containing this loss, his sister's fingers tracing the dried lines of the runes. _I should ask how..._ Yet he couldn't bring himself to supplant his last memories of Fíli and Kíli as they'd been, strong of limb and strong of heart, clad as the princes they were in gilded mail.

Pride had bloomed fierce in his breast as they filed past him to war, fearless, Fíli in the lead, Kíli half a step behind, and again in the tumult of the fighting when they alone of the Company gave thought to the formations of their erstwhile besiegers, the Elves and Men, now allies. Though the battle was going ill then, their enemies swarming in an endless dark sea, he could see glimpses of a shining future.

Fíli would be a better, greater king than he, possessed of a more even temper; his natural talent for statecraft already outstripped Thorin's, which had so often dismayed his tutors at Fíli's age. And Kíli would be Fíli's loyal right hand, as Frerin might have been his, a daring general, recklessness tempered by experience, and a charismatic adviser with Dís's effortless social graces. _I should not have let them stray from my side._ Durin's heirs they were, and they had died hard and too young.

"I'll have Nori..." Balin's voice drifted to him as if he were being hailed from a far distant shore veiled in mist, fading in and out. He would never be able to watch Fíli and Kíli learn the love of families of their own, he realized—sons and daughters to hold in their arms, nephews and nieces to smilingly spoil. Surely, they had been kissed at least? By a pretty lass they were sweet on or a handsome lad, bold as brass and blushing shy? Thorin didn't know and could not ever ask. "Thorin—" Balin again, pleading.

"If there is nothing else to see to, Balin," said Thorin, "I would now like to rest." He sounded almost normal but felt... nothing. He'd been hollowed out.

"Thorin—" Balin's expression was pained, one hand half extended towards Thorin's shoulder, silently begging permission to touch, comfort. _He need not treat me like glass._ And Thorin found that there was yet anger in him. It swelled up sudden as an avalanche in the mountains, a thundering wall of blind rage.

" _Leave me_ ," he hissed and looked on, unmoved, as Balin paled until his skin was the color of his beard, his eyes widening. Then Thorin stared fixedly at his hands, clenched and shaking in his lap. Finally, without another word, Balin left. _Good_ , thought Thorin, even as the first tendrils of shame wrapped tight about his heart.

How long he sat there afterwards, alone and thinking of nothing, staring at nothing, he didn't know. He was startled by the rattle of a tray being placed on the ground, blinking at the gloom inside the tent. When had night fallen? With a rasping strike of a match—Thorin turned his head at the noise—Bombur lit the candles at his bedside, before arranging carefully across his lap a small table, upon which was a steaming tray of food, bowl, plate, and spoon neatly laid. Supper delivered, Bombur seemed to hesitate, tugging at the blankets where Thorin had rucked them up—his traitorous hands, scrabbling for some purchase—until Thorin was once more ensconced in a warm, soft cocoon. Another hesitation, but whatever it was Bombur wanted to say, he apparently decided otherwise, retreating as quietly as he'd come, entire body drooping.

Staring now at his supper, Thorin wondered whether he'd ever stop feeling ashamed. Accompanying the expected broth, the same that Dwalin had brought, was a pastry pie, crust baked to golden, flaky perfection. Someone had cut it into equal-sized chunks fit to his spoon, revealing the filling of finely ground meat, browned but still juicy, and minced vegetables. This was surely the work of a whole afternoon and with game scarcer as winter deepened, made to please him. _I've been an ungrateful churl._

"Bombur," he said, Bombur pausing at the tent entrance, face nervous and questioning, "it is good to see you well." Thorin cleared his throat, his voice a stiff croak from disuse, nodding at the tray before him. "Thank you. The meal looks wonderful."

Was that enough? Or had he presumed too much? His courtesies were not so refined as Balin's— _I must make amends_ —but neither could he recall being this clumsy with his words, ungainly as a newborn colt and unbalanced, since he was younger than... He closed his eyes and inhaled, exhaled, one slow breath at a time.

"Thank me by eating it," Bombur said gently, and when Thorin opened his eyes, he was alone again. Determinedly, he ate, spooning mouthfuls of soup and pastry with mechanical efficiency until both bowl and plate stood empty, though he tasted nothing, all the food turned to dust on his tongue. _This meal was wasted on me_ , he thought bitterly, lips twisting in loathing at this further proof that he deserved no kindness.

An hour, maybe two, later—time passed strangely, lagging one moment, slipping through his fingers the next—Thorin had another visitor. His eyes played a trick on him at first but, no, the jutting ridge of hair was taller, spikier, lighter in color than Dwalin's, which had long been shaved clean. _After Azanulbizar_ , Thorin remembered. _But Dori and Ori are well..._ He had seen Ori with his own eyes, heard Dori, and Balin would deflect but not lie to him. "Nori," he said, inexplicably afraid, "your hair...?"

Nori's worried expression was overtaken by one of surprise and, to Thorin's relief, he smiled, tentative and a bit sheepish. "Ah, well," he said, rubbing a hand over his shorn skin, "I almost lost my head to a lucky goblin. Didn't see much point in keeping the one side when the other had to be cut down near to nothing..." He shrugged, affectedly casual.

"It suits you," Thorin said, trying to smile in return, though he failed in this, too, judging by how Nori's face set into rigid lines. _Better that we not pretend all is well._ "Balin said that... you'd have pen and parchment for me?" He was not certain that had, in fact, been what Balin instructed, but Nori nodded and laid at Thorin's side on the cot a stack of paper, quill and inkpot that Thorin hadn't noticed he'd been carrying.

With a small noise of satisfaction, Nori picked up the tray with its empty bowl and plate. Scrutinizing the tray with undue attention and his fingers fidgeting at its edges, he said, "I know nothing can make it right, _easier_ , but..." He swallowed and trailed off. "I'll just see this back to the kitchens," he finally muttered, clearly intending to scuttle out of the tent without enlightening Thorin as to what he meant. Then Thorin glanced down at the parchment Nori had brought him.

 _How...?_ The top sheets were of the fine vellum, white and luminous, used for royal edicts and other writings of importance; the hammer, anvil, and seven-starred crown was framed in an elaborate seal of darkest blue at the head of each page. His eyes burned as he thumbed the smooth, crisp paper, familiar to the touch from lazy afternoons spent in the king's private study when Frerin and Dís were still toddling, too little to peer over the ledge of Grandfather's desk.

Thrór had been an indulgent minder, allowing them to sit in his lap, curious fingers buried in his beard, as he read correspondence. His hands were big and warm, sure, around Thorin's as he taught Thorin how to fold piece after piece of thin, beautiful vellum into wondrous shapes—birds and beasts, flowers, stars and angular mysteries to draw gap-toothed grins from Frerin, giggles from Dís. This news would be ugly wrought in gold and _mithril_ , studded with a hundred precious stones, but...

"My thanks, Nori," said Thorin, voice thick. "Dís will appreciate this... kindness." Nori visibly relaxed, tense shoulders sagging in relief and a tightness around his eyes, his mouth easing.

After Nori took his leave for the night with a nod, Thorin spread the parchment across the small table Bombur had brought, vellum pushed carefully into one corner so he could first compose his thoughts on paper of poorer quality. But he found himself staring uselessly at his hands instead.

What good would his words of apology and condolence do? They could not change the past nor serve as a ward against mistakes in the future, should he again fall to madness. "You are not making a very splendid figure as King Under the Mountain," Gandalf had said, tone aggrieved, at the gates. Bilbo was climbing down to join him, siding with Bard and Thranduil, head bowed as his bare hands and feet scraped across the rocks. Thorin had been furious then. _He_ was the one who'd been betrayed by false friends, besieged by thieves extorting the treasures of his people from him at swordpoint. Fate, however, had judged him to be in the wrong and exacted a punishment that...

Rubbing a weak hand over his face, Thorin fought the hitch in his breath, the back of his throat wet. He steeled himself, hollowness giving way to grim resolve, reached for the pen and, dipping it in ink, began writing. _I, Thorin son of Thráin, son of Thrór, King Under the Mountain, hereby..._

**· · ·**

He woke late the next day, ink staining his aching fingers and candles burnt down to stubs. Thorin cast a critical eye over the two letters he'd written: The second, to Dís, was spare of words and inadequate, but Thorin folded it with unsteady hands regardless to await a seal. The first, lengthier by far, was for Balin and awaited his approval; reading it was a queer comfort, a weight lifting from his shoulders that he'd grown so accustomed to it'd long become a part of him. He did not know who he would be without it. _But this is right._ And what might have been a pang of regret was swept away like snow blown into a cold, blank expanse of white by the wind.

When Bombur eventually came with the midday meal—more soup and a freshly baked roll, spread with a smidgen of blackberry jam—Thorin asked for Balin to attend him as soon as possible. Still, it was not until after Thorin had finished eating, his tray and dishes cleared briskly by Dori, already carrying a stack from his rounds of the camp, that Balin ducked into the tent.

Food sitting heavy in his stomach, an indigestible lump—it'd stuck to the roof of his mouth like wet ash as he forced himself to eat—Thorin watched unblinkingly as Balin heated a spoonful of sealing wax over a candle. "You've letters to send?" said Balin, tone light and neutral, as if he didn't know exactly what letter Thorin had to send, with what news and to whom. Shame rose in him again as he noted the careful way Balin avoided meeting his gaze, eyes red from a sleepless night.

"Yes," Thorin said, handing over his letter to Dís. "And... I owe you an apology for yesterday, as well as for the other times I've been undeservedly short with you this past month." He swallowed, thinking of the harsh words he'd answered Balin's counsel with, mind fixed on the Arkenstone. "I can make no excuses for my behavior. Except to ask that you not hold my poor temper"—Thorin smiled bitterly at this understatement—"as a reflection of my esteem of you." He found it difficult to look at Balin, head wanting to bow so he could stare at his hands instead, his remaining letter framed between them on the writing table.

Balin deftly sealed Dís's letter, impressing the dark blue wax with a silver stamp, fitted to a handle of marble veined in gold, bearing the royal emblem—courtesy of Nori, Thorin guessed—after moistening the metal end with his breath. "There is nothing to forgive," he said easily. Tucking the letter into one of the inner pockets of his robes, Balin continued, "I'll see this to Dwalin." He gave Thorin no pause to attempt another apology. "Thranduil has returned and would speak to you before he departs for Mirkwood to stay. Gandalf and Beorn would also see that you are healing well before they depart with—"

Resigned now to the fact that Balin would not let him apologize properly, Thorin was still determined to make amends. "Balin," he said, "there is a matter that needs your attention first." At Balin's puzzled expression, Thorin handed him the other letter with a quiet, "Please read it and see that all is in order."

Affection warmed him when Balin drew from one voluminous sleeve a handheld jeweler's lens to study the text more closely. That had been a habit of Balin's since his youth, though Thorin knew his vision to be perfectly adequate to the task of reading even the finest print. How often he'd seen Balin pore over some contract or dry legal treatise, squinting through a like lens as if the mysteries of the world were contained within curls and loops of ink! _But maybe never again._ This time, he didn't fight the urge to lower his eyes, feeling suddenly numb.

"Long have I thought on my actions of late," he began, subdued, "and my failures as king. The wrongs I've done my loyal friends and followers, my... dearest kin." Thorin closed his eyes, hearing and hating the way his voice cracked. He pressed on, ruthlessly. "This is not a decision I've made lightly but in the interests of Erebor's future. Dáin's son is, by all accounts, a clever lad and stout of heart, growing to be much like his father, and I've appointed you his regent, which I do not believe will be contested, being your right as the eldest of Borin's line." Balin was ominously silent; Thorin dared not look at him.

"I shall winter in the Mountain, with your permission, so that I may greet my sister when she arrives. After..." He shook his head slowly, biting the inside of his cheek. "I... It is my hope to yet be of some service to our people. An invalid though I am at present, you know I can swing a sword. I could patrol our borders or, or help train our warriors." That would not be so bad, Thorin thought. To wield his blade in defense of his home and to teach young Dwarves to love the song of steel, Dwalin at his side, but... "No... No, my presence would only undermine your rule." And he'd realized that last night as he wrote. _I can delude myself no longer._ Erebor would be lost to him once more and the Blue Mountains, too, the Iron Hills and every realm Dwarves called theirs, the road stretching endlessly before him. "Then perhaps I can journey to Rhûn, to Rohan and Gondor or parts farther south as an envoy..."

"All seems to be in order," Balin said abruptly. Thorin nodded, exhaling shakily, and finally glanced at Balin, who had put away his lens and was folding the letter into neat thirds, face impassive. Then, as Thorin watched, flabbergasted, Balin ripped it in half and half again and again until it was little better than white confetti. That he sprinkled into a small heap atop the bedside table, brushing his hands clean of clinging pieces with an air of grim satisfaction.

" _Balin—!_ " Thorin gritted his teeth. It had been tortuously hard to write that letter, though the other had been far harder, each stab of his pen upon the paper echoed by an ache in his chest. His eyes were stinging by the end, whether from exhaustion or the smoke of the candles he was unsure. He did not think he could do it a second time. "You—"

"Hear me, Thorin son of Thráin, son of Thrór," interrupted Balin in a tone that brooked no argument, a steely glint in his eye. "I did not trek a thousand miles through the wilds, brave trolls, goblins, orcs, wargs, spiders, and _a dragon_ , fight a war and ally with _Elves_ , Men, and Eagles to help you exile yourself out of misplaced guilt. And neither did the rest of the Company." Seeing Thorin's expression of startled wariness, Balin softened. "The best way to honor them, Thorin, is to honor the cause they died for and be the king you were always meant to be."

At that, Thorin let out a sharp bark of a laugh, face twisting in loathing. "What sort of king was I meant to be, Balin? I—"

"You fell to the gold sickness, aye. Like your grandfather before you." Balin said nothing that Thorin had not already thought of himself, but still the words burned his ears, a hot flush of shame crawling up his neck, somehow seeming more real now that another had spoken them for him to hear. "That there will be consequences you and I both know well. But...

"Thorin, this burden, this _responsibility_ , is not yours alone to bear." Balin sighed heavily. "The Company has talked of this. If you failed us, so, too, did we fail you." Thorin opened his mouth to deny that, but Balin forestalled him with a raised hand. "The signs of Thrór's madness were not unknown to us, yet when the same shadow began to darken your mind, not one of us had the courage to tell you. Or even to challenge your decisions, except..." _Fíli, Kíli_ , thought Thorin, and he knew from the bleak shine of Balin's eyes that he also remembered.

"Well," Balin continued with an effort, " _no more_." Resolve hard in his voice and his gaze pinning Thorin in place, unable to move, he said, "We have all of us—Dwalin and I, Óin and Glóin, Bifur, Dori, Bofur, Nori, Bombur, and even young Ori—sworn to guard you from this demon.

"If it seeks to prey upon your fears, we shall stand at your side and beat it back. If you are blinded by it, we shall not watch idly as you stumble but pull you up by the hand towards the light." Balin smiled at him, tone gentling and filled with such emotion that Thorin's breath caught. "And if ever you have cause to doubt your own strength in this battle, we shall lend you ours, whatever you may require of us, until you can find yours once again." He extended his hand to clasp Thorin's shoulder, and this time he did not balk, his unwavering grip a warm comfort. "This is not a foe that can defeat us or you, Thorin, now that we know its face."

"Balin, I..." Thorin swallowed convulsively, blinking away the tears that wanted to wet his skin. What had he done to deserve this devotion? He could spend a hundred lives of Men, as many ages as the Elves had, righting all the world's wrongs and still never be worthy of this faith, that forgave so readily but didn't diminish for it. "I... I'm afraid that—"

"Do you trust us?" Balin asked simply. "We are not the best nor brightest, I admit, but..." He'd felt that he understood then, what had brought this odd collection of Dwarves—merchants, miners, tinkerers, toymakers—to the cramped table of their fussy and reluctant host. "In this, can you believe in our word?" _Loyalty, honor, and a willing heart._

Perhaps they had not been the best when they first set out on the quest, but its trials had revealed their quality, like a rich vein of truesilver running hidden in the rock, diamonds in the rough. And there was only one answer that Thorin Oakenshield could give. "Yes."

"Then all will be well." With a final reassuring squeeze of Thorin's shoulder, Balin stood, patting down his robes. "Now, you have a busy afternoon ahead of you. The Elvenking first, Gandalf and Beorn. Tomorrow, we break camp and move the remaining wounded into Erebor's halls for the winter. Do you think you can walk with assistance?" Thorin nodded dumbly, thoughts sluggish as his mind turned the Company's care over and over, awed and humbled. Balin eyed him skeptically. "I suppose we'll cross that bridge when we come to it and not a moment sooner. As is our wont." The memory of Balin's wry smile stayed with Thorin long after he left.

His next visitor was not so welcome a sight. Thranduil looked much as Thorin had seen him prior to the battle, clad in dark armor silvered like the gleam of starlight on deep waters and flowing pale hair bound at his brow with a circlet of steel, though divested of his cloak. Thorin stiffened under that coolly appraising Elven gaze, all too aware of his own weakness, but Thranduil only said, "You seem much recovered from when last I saw you."

"I understand I have your healers to thank for that," Thorin said, matching Thranduil's polite tone despite how his jaw reflexively tightened at being in debt to one he could not help but consider more enemy still than friend. The Elvenking nodded graciously, as if receiving his due. His following words, however, surprised Thorin.

"No debt stands between us, King Under the Mountain. Have no fear." The glint in Thranduil's eye was slightly mocking, and Thorin's hackles rose. Before he could speak—probably something angry and insulting, he conceded—Thranduil continued, "Your kin has already seen the debt paid, a life for a life, and at a cost I would not have wished upon you. Were it not for your sister-son—Kíli, I believe he was called—my son Legolas would be counted among the dead." While unnerving with the weight of days unnumbered, there was a softness of feeling to Thranduil's unblinking stare now, an indefinable give in the sharp lines of his face, that Thorin had never imagined they could show.

"Bosom companions you and I shall never be," said Thranduil, as Thorin sat stunned, trying hard not to gape like a fool at this glimpse of a kinder, gentler Elvenking, blunt words aside. "Yet allies we can be, Erebor and the Woodland Realm at a peace as has not been known between our peoples since before the coming of the dragon."

 _"They are not without compassion, Uncle."_ Whatever his nephew's motivations for saving the life of an Elven princeling at the expense of his own, Thorin refused to squander Kíli's sacrifice out of petty pride. _Would that I could tell him he was right..._ "Yes," he said, voice a little choked. "Let us be allies, as we were of old."

And for the second time in a month, Thorin found himself in the unforeseen position of being grateful to Thranduil. Who inclined his head in agreement before turning away to the tent entrance, leaving Thorin to swallow the grief Thranduil made no other acknowledgment of, in speech or deed. Thorin thought he might be grateful even for that.

When Thranduil returned, he carried a long, slender shape wrapped in wine-dark velvet, laid reverently across his open palms. A sword, Thorin realized with a jolt. "To seal this rapprochement, I restore now unto you what was wrongfully taken from you." Thranduil placed the sword on the cot at Thorin's side, flicking open the velvet to uncover the smooth curve of bright Elven steel. His hand twitched, and before Thorin could consider what ulterior motives the Elvenking might have in presenting Orcrist to him like this, his fingers had already closed around the hilt, the familiar ridges and carvings of dragonbone flush against his skin.

Loath though he'd been to recognize so at first, Orcrist was beautifully made. It was as finely crafted as the best Dwarven blades but with a lighter heft, the flare of its edge lending itself to arcing strikes, graceful and sweeping as a dance, if a lethal one. For years, Deathless, of his own forging, had served him faithfully. Yet after escaping the goblin tunnels, this very hilt molded to his grip as they cleaved, spinning, through their enemies, Thorin thought that no other weapon would ever feel as right in his hands, combat transformed into an art once more.

With an effort of will, Thorin forced himself to uncurl his fingers and release the hilt, resting his hand near on the velvet. "When last I held this blade, I was accused of being a thief," he observed, voice flat. The Elvenking raised an elegant eyebrow at his suspicion, not having missed his interest in the sword.

"The sons of Elrond joined us in pursuit of the goblins a few days past," said Thranduil, unfazed. Thorin frowned at this seeming digression. He was briefly introduced to the Lord of Rivendell's sons, as alike as two peas in a pod, during his stay in their father's house, but they'd quickly departed on some mysterious errand and he did not see them again. He could not recall their names, in truth, nor guess why they would trouble themselves with the treacherous mountain passes and tangled pathways of Mirkwood. _To kill goblins?_ They were a merry pair, jostling each other good-naturedly as they walked shoulder to shoulder away down the hall, a fond smile from their grave sire trailing them, and they'd reminded Thorin strongly of... _Of Fíli and Kíli_ , he thought with a dull ache. _And me. Frerin and Thráin._

His confusion must have shown on his face because the Elvenking added, "There has not been an orc hunt within a hundred leagues of Imladris that they have failed to blood their swords on in four centuries. It is from them that we heard their father gifted you this blade, he whose kin forged and wielded it in Gondolin that was." Of Gondolin, Thorin knew only what legend told—a hidden city of tiered white stone that had stood against the Enemy in an earlier age, Minas Tirith its closest likeness still in the world—and he wondered who Elrond was that he could claim descent from the High Elves of that lost stronghold, bestowing its treasures upon whomever he pleased without contest.

 _How easy it can be to neglect that even the youngest of your kind have been worn by lifetimes of strife and shaped by blood debts long forgotten._ "May it serve you well, Thorin Oakenshield," Thranduil finished, bowing his head almost imperceptibly and right hand over his heart in a stately Elven salute. His hand settling on Orcrist's hilt, Thorin nodded solemnly. _Let us be allies_ , he repeated in silent vow to himself, as Thranduil made to leave. The Elvenking, however, paused at the tent entrance, straight back to Thorin.

"There is among the wounded a captain of mine, Tauriel," he said, not quite hesitant but slowly, "who is known to those of your company in Esgaroth when the dragon came. She grieves deeply for your sister-sons, the one she saved and the other she could not. I ask that you treat her kindly." And then, before Thorin could muster a reply to this, he was gone in a flash of sunlight on silvered armor and pale hair. The redheaded she-Elf—it must be her, but what had passed between her and Kíli, Thranduil's son, and Fíli Thorin did not understand. He resolved to learn before he spoke to this Tauriel.

His next two visitors were not so trying.

Gandalf brought news from the south and a belated explanation for his frequent absences during the quest. The White Council—Gandalf and two others of his order, Elrond, and the Lady of the Golden Wood, an Elven sorceress reputed to be fair as foxglove—had driven the Necromancer from Dol Guldur.

It was an unlikely tale of capture, escape, and magic; Thorin half suspected the wizard had fabricated it out of whole cloth and listened, disgruntled. Until Gandalf shared in strict confidence the true identity of the Necromancer and that he'd found Thráin, dying, a prisoner in the Dark Lord's fortress. A relief it was of a sort to finally hear of his father's fate, for Thorin had long feared the worst. Thráin himself seemed to have been haunted by some ill premonition, seeking out Gandalf in the final months before Azanulbizar—a task he would not be dissuaded from by king or kin.

"And so all your plans have come to fruition," Thorin said, tone carefully neutral, when Gandalf was done. He did not know from whence Gandalf and his brother wizards came, but that they had an agenda of their own, moving those they professed to advise like pieces in an unseen game, was clear. While it had suited Thorin to allow Gandalf to convince him the time was right to reclaim Erebor, an end he, too, desired greatly and the omens favored, it was the death of the dragon, Thorin soon guessed, that most concerned Gandalf.

Now, with the Necromancer unveiled as Sauron, reborn or perhaps never truly destroyed, Gandalf's designs had also been revealed: Smaug slain and unable to ally with a darker power; Dol Guldur emptied of its armies so that its master could be challenged. _Yet in your hand are more cards you have not played_ , thought Thorin, eyeing Gandalf, who looked far too unassuming to be believed.

"Oh, much has come to pass that I had no notion of," answered Gandalf, his gaze momentarily canny. "Do not think me infallible, Thorin Oakenshield." Then he sighed and was naught but an old man in gray, weary of his burdens. "I am sorry for your loss, Thorin." Strain had left new lines at the corners of his eyes.

Remembering the glow of candlelight on Gandalf's laughing face in Bag End, his affection for his charges unmistakable, Thorin nodded with a jerk of his head and accepted the wizard's sympathies in the sincerity that they'd been offered. Gandalf fell silent after that but sat with Thorin for a little longer, smoking his pipe, the smell homely and comforting, before he bid Thorin farewell.

Beorn shrugged off Thorin's gratitude with a gruff, "I have no love of orcs," though Thorin could tell it pleased him. Neither did he refuse the gold and silver Thorin insisted was his, saying that he would've had no interest in it before, but he was to be a lord of men, apparently, and certain things were expected of him.

"Some of the Lakemen seem to feel that being able to turn into a bear makes me fit for a lordship," he added at Thorin's surprise. "The fool lot of them's set on following me back to my lands come spring, now that the southern forest has been cleansed. Like ducklings after their mother." Beorn snorted, raking a hand through his wild mane of hair. "There won't be any quiet to be had, with babes squalling and children running about underfoot, their parents 'my lord'-ing me with this or that, day and night."

Thorin raised an eyebrow, simply looking at Beorn until he admitted, grudgingly, "Well, it won't _all_ be so bad." The smile tugging at Beorn's lips put the lie to his words, however. In fact, Thorin rather suspected that Beorn would enjoy the company—babes, children, and parents alike all his to care for. _Same as his bees_ , thought Thorin, faintly amused, _his cattle and sheep, his dogs, his horses._ He saw again the skinchanger's paw of a hand cupped huge but gentle around a trusting mouse.

"I believe you'll make a fine lord, Master Beorn," he said. "And the Dwarves of Erebor shall ever be friends to you and yours." An easier alliance than his with Thranduil, to be sure, and one of mutual benefit. With the Lonely Mountain and Dale settled once more, traffic over the old Forest Road would increase; Beorn and his men in the vales of the Anduin could keep open the High Pass and ford south of the Carrock, for which Thorin did not doubt travelers would pay a pretty toll.

"We'll see how good a lord I am," said Beorn with a noncommittal grunt, "though your friendship I'll gladly have. Even if I'm still not overfond of Dwarves." He laughed suddenly, low and rumbling. "Of the three of us—you, me, and the man they call Dragonshooter—you are the only one who intended to be what you now are. Fate never ceases to amaze me." Beorn shook his head, then bent at the waist in a shallow, loose-limbed bow and took his leave with a dry, "My regards, King Under the Mountain."

 _Fate..._ The idea prodded at his mind, a hard mass and bruising, as Thorin conferred with Glóin to ready Beorn's share of the treasure for his departure tomorrow. It was a whisper in Thorin's ear as Dwalin reported on the band of goblin stragglers killed a couple days ago by a far ranging patrol and Óin on the prognosis of the worst of the wounded—most were expected to live, thankfully.

Bard and Beorn had won their right to rule through heroism, their followers admiring their courage and strength, but Thorin... The need to reclaim Erebor had burned in his heart so long, a fire that would not be quenched by days of peace in the Blue Mountains, that he feared there were only ashes left and no contentment to be found in new crown or realm. He'd thought nothing short of exile could serve as his penance, a life spent wandering in strange lands as regret ate at his insides like a hungry rat. Yet perhaps this was a crueler sentence. To act out a poor semblance of his once dearest hopes, fully aware he was undeserving of even that much. _To never be free of my doubts..._

He must have dozed off, for it was evening again when he drifted slowly back to consciousness. _Erebor..._ He'd dreamed of walking its halls, empty and echoing. Though the images were fading fast, Thorin remembered his footprints in the dust and crossing an endless narrow bridge, the floor dropping away into a yawning abyss on either side. Steps down and down, down into the dark deep beneath the Mountain. He shivered. _I was searching. Searching for..._

There was a light at his bedside, Thorin noticed, startled, and it was not the steady flame of a candle but a glimmering halo of color, as if a piece of the moon had been caught in crystal and fractured into ten thousand rainbows. His pulse leaped, in an almost nervous anticipation; he knew of but one thing that could create such a light. Propped up against the side of his cot was Orcrist, now in its sheath, and lying benignly atop the table, not far from the edge nearest Thorin, was the Arkenstone.

For a breathless moment, he stared at this splendid jewel that had caused him and his house so much grief. He had not wanted to see the Arkenstone again, wary of falling under its spell once more, and indeed its beauty was as keen as in his memory, unsurpassed by any except, if legend was to be believed, that of the Silmarils. But, after all that had happened, Thorin thought it a cold beauty, indifferent to the suffering of those who loved it.

He turned from the Arkenstone at last and did not regret it. Instead, his eyes were drawn to the sleeping figure sitting on the stool next to him, head resting on folded arms upon his cot. Thorin reached out but wrenched his arm back before his fingers could touch a single hair to clasp his shaking hands together in his lap. He must have made some noise, however, because Bilbo jerked awake. He blinked blearily, one small fist rubbing at his eye.

"Master Baggins," Thorin said quietly. _Bilbo_ was on the tip of his tongue, but perhaps he'd lost his right to that name. "I... trust that you are well?" He studied Bilbo closely, searching head and face for signs of the injury Balin had mentioned, noting Bilbo's wan look, the gauntness of his already slight frame, and wishing he could comb his fingers through Bilbo's hair to the scalp, smooth his palms down Bilbo's arms and legs, his every side and feel the wholeness of flesh and bone under his skin, his clothes, the gift of _mithril_ mail he still wore, glinting at his neck. But Thorin kept his hands clenched in his lap. One had been enough to wrap, choking, around that throat.

"Thorin! Y-You're awake!" Bilbo cried, sounding worried but also inexplicably relieved. "I... I brought you..." His gaze darted from the Arkenstone to his fidgeting fingers, and he spoke in a rush. "I mean, Bard gave it back to me to give back to you before, before he left this morning, and I thought... I made such a great mess of things, trying to stop a battle that was fought despite or, or maybe _because_ I acted the fool, and now Fíli and Kíli—" His shoulders hunched miserably, as Thorin stiffened against the gutting stab of pain.

Bilbo's voice when he continued was tiny, thin and wavering. "I wanted to set right the wrong I'd done you, but it, it's too late, isn't it?" He pressed the heels of his hands to his eyes, scrubbing fiercely, to Thorin's horror, at the tears gathered there.

" _No_ ," said Thorin, desperate that Bilbo heed him. "Master Bag—" He couldn't call him that, distancing them like the strangers they hadn't been since that lovely dawn upon the Carrock. " _Bilbo._ Listen to me. What happened wasn't your fault." _It was mine._ "Fíli and Kíli... Their"—why was it so hard to force the truth from his tongue?—"their deaths were not of your making." Bilbo didn't seem entirely convinced, his face pale and pinched, but he sat a bit straighter, determinedly wiping his eyes dry. _He is a kindly little soul_ , Thorin thought, _and braver than even he knows._

"If you acted the fool, I was many times one," he continued, after clearing his throat once, twice. "I... I would take back my words and deeds at the gates. I cannot say whether you did good or ill—there were forces greater than you, greater than I moving us all—but I am sorry I doubted you so, doubted your heart, that has ever shown me more care than I deserve."

Rarely had Thorin felt so awkward, fumbling and uncertain. The fluttering of earlier had returned, a moth caged by his ribs, and every syllable was rusted metal scraping over stone, his voice raw to his ears. "I was cruel, unforgivably cruel, and though I have lost your friendship, I... I wish for us to, to part in—" His throat closed, to Thorin's shame, and he couldn't, _couldn't_ finish, staring fixedly at the gently pointed curve of Bilbo's ear where it poked through his hair, breathing a harsh rasp.

"You were not yourself," Bilbo said, words slow and clear. His expressive features, in contrast, creased with emotion Thorin could not read before firming in resolve. "I won't pretend that you didn't scare me and, and make me scared _for_ you, but you have my friendship still, Thorin." Then Bilbo stuttered, suddenly anxious. "If, if that's what you want, that is."

That was more than Thorin had dared hope for. "Yes, yes, of course," he stammered. "I would... would very much like to be friends." Guilt pried his mouth open again, even as his mind screamed that he should keep his silence and not ruin this unlooked-for reconciliation. "But, Bilbo, I _was_ myself. You must understand that. I would not have you absolve me of responsibility for my actions, no matter how dearly I—"

At the same time, Bilbo blurted, "I'm leaving, Thorin. Tomorrow morning, with Gandalf and Beorn." He sounded as guilty as Thorin did. "That makes me a rather shabby friend, I know. Not, not staying to help you when there's so much to be done and, and waiting this long to tell you, but I—"

They both stopped, coming to a mutual realization that they were each having a different conversation. Thorin coughed, grimacing, as Bilbo flushed red to his ears. Bilbo recovered quicker than did Thorin and, wondrously, began laughing, chagrined but genuinely amused. A hint of a smile was tucked into the corners of his mouth. An answering smile curled Thorin's lips up at the ends, his muscles loosening.

"What a fine pair we are!" Bilbo shook his head wryly before sobering. "Thorin, we've all said and done things we didn't mean, would never say or do if we were thinking straight. I'm not going to hold that against you. Not when I _know_ you and that you are _good_ and, and honorable, a loyal friend and kind, too." A teasing air crept cautiously into the way Bilbo glanced at him. "Even if you _are_ prone to dramatics, too proud to be outdone by anyone in fits of temper." He arched an eyebrow at Thorin.

Face now buried in one palm, Thorin chuckled weakly and a little unwillingly. _Kind, he says._ "That's... certainly a _unique_ perspective, Master Baggins." He sighed. "I do not understand how you can forgive me so easily, Bilbo, but I won't question it any further and will simply be grateful for it." _And you_ , Thorin added to himself, trying to commit this debt to some part of him deeper than memory. Bilbo nodded in approval, arms crossed over his chest.

At Thorin's tentative, "Tell me why you would leave us so soon, when the mountain passes will be closed to you until spring," however, he ran a trembling hand through his hair, slumping tiredly. The following lull stretched so long that Thorin feared he wouldn't reply.

"I could tell you that I miss the Shire," Bilbo finally said. "Its rolling green hills and lazy days in the sun. My books and my garden, my cozy armchair by the fire in Bag End, my pipe and a nice cup of tea near at hand." His tone was wistful, and Thorin had to bite the inside of his cheek to not interrupt. _We can make you a home here_ , he thought. _Or in Dale. Whatever you want. Just..._ "And, and that would be true..." Bilbo worried at his lower lip, hesitating, then took a deep breath. "But it would be a lie, too. The truth is..."

With a visible effort, he met and held Thorin's concerned gaze. "The real truth is, Thorin, I can't enter the Mountain without remembering that dreadful dragon, his, his _voice_ "—Bilbo shuddered, shrinking in on himself—"wicked words and fire in the night, all those people who _burned_ b-because... A-And Dale's not much better, the ground red and black, bodies stacked high like, like cordwood, Fíli and Kíli—" He turned his head away, breath hitching, and whispered, "You... How can you _stand_ it?"

 _Because I must._ That would not help Bilbo, though, altogether too grim for his ears. "Erebor is my home," Thorin said instead, "as the Shire is yours." Even as Thorin made the comparison, he wanted to deny it. For it meant he could never keep Bilbo from the warren of a house under the hill and its round green door, grass growing lush on the verge, every nook and cranny within filled with mementos. Treasures more precious than gold. "No matter how much... darkness"— _war, death, sickness_ —"it has known, if I... can be of use, I would not abandon it." To Thorin's dismay, Bilbo looked not the least bit comforted by this, his face a wretched picture of shame.

Silently cursing his inability to find the right words, Thorin exhaled sharply and tried again. "But... I have an obligation to my people, who have not seen fit to release me from it. You, Bilbo, _you_ have more than fulfilled your obligations to the Company, and now it is past time for you to put yourself first." _I'm not getting through to him_ , Thorin thought at the soft, wounded noise that escaped Bilbo. His nails dug into his palms as he resisted the panicky urge to pull Bilbo into an embrace until all his ills had been drawn from him, before they could poison that gentle spirit, as Thorin had turned sour and brittle.

"Master Baggins," said Thorin, purposely stern, "as your _friend_ , I want you to seek your peace, wherever you think it lies." He swallowed, head bowing, and compelled his heart to let go. The lesson of possession's perils was not one he would ever allow himself to forget. "While I can't claim that I won't miss you, sorely, I'd rather you be content half a world away than, than shackled to your pain at my side."

And because he was weak still, Thorin added, voice muted, "If... If one day you wish to... I hope you'll feel things have changed for the better." In his mind's eye, he saw himself standing proud next to Bilbo on the ramparts where he'd come so close to destroying whatever ties of affection bound them, a hand sure on Bilbo's shoulder and the valley spread like a jeweled mosaic at their feet, rich once more with birds, blossoms and fruit, white sails catching the sun all along the blue ribbon of the River Running. _Years. It'll be years._ Defeated, Thorin could only promise, "You shall always be welcome here."

"Oh, Thorin," Bilbo said, sniffling, "you, you great fool of a—" Later, he'd blame his inattentiveness on the puzzling note of exasperation in Bilbo's voice. Though, he admitted, he was not usually so slow to react to sudden motion, too busy berating himself for upsetting Bilbo further. Either way, he was taken completely by surprise when Bilbo all but leaped the short distance between them, body landing half on his, half on the cot and arms wrapping tight around him. His breath blew out of him like he'd been punched hard in the stomach; he tensed, hands twitching, aching to the tips of his fingers to return Bilbo's touch. But Bilbo was too near, curls of hair tickling Thorin's cheek and little puffs of air the shell of his ear. Thorin didn't trust himself not to clutch, to bruise.

"Thank you. For understanding," Bilbo said into Thorin's hair, sounding as if he were weeping and laughing at once. "But this is not goodbye—not, not forever, at least. That I need a, a bit of time away doesn't mean I don't need my friends." When Bilbo released him, standing and straightening his clothes with an embarrassed cough, one hand brushing quickly at his eyes, Thorin mourned the loss of that warm weight against him. "Balin tells me there's likely to be messengers or what have you traveling between Erebor and the Blue Mountains every couple months." Thorin nodded, thinking of trade and gold and his people coming home, families reunited, Dís, _Dís_.

"Well, I intend to take full advantage of it, and I expect you to do so, too." Bilbo's tone was imperious, the ring of steel underneath, and his stance challenging, a far cry from the sheltered Halfling Thorin had mocked as a grocer. He was no warrior, more apt yet to flail with his sword than cut, but he had treated with kings and defied them. "Have your messengers stop by the Shire. Tea is at four, but they can visit at any time, so long as they don't look to empty my larder." His brows drew down into a thunderous scowl at Thorin. Who huffed to learn that Bilbo _still_ had not forgiven the Company for doing him the _favor_ of eating his food before it went to waste, gone rotten and stale during what was expected to be a months-long absence.

"I shall command them to exercise restraint," Thorin intoned, smiling helplessly at Bilbo's outrage. _I had nothing to do with his empty larder._ Bilbo, however, seemed to have forgotten this fact, inordinately pleased with receiving Thorin's royal protection. He smiled back at Thorin, eyes curiously soft.

"You must write to me, Thorin," he said, just as Thorin was beginning to feel odd under that tender focus. "I want to hear of all that you're up to." Frowning contemplatively, Bilbo added, "Unless it's a state secret, of course. Or too, too _Dwarvish_ for a Hobbit to follow, as I'll ask that you mind my ignorance about who's who among the lords of the Iron Hills, the customary arrangement of mining rotas, and such."

"Balin?" asked Thorin, amused. He chuckled at Bilbo's heated, frustrated _yes!_ Then stopped, abruptly, to marvel at his own good humor, hearing a lightness to that one brief exchange that he had not noticed was missing from his others until now. Dread again rose in him at this inexorable separation.

"And one day," Bilbo said, catching Thorin's eye, "I'll return. I promise, Thorin." His gaze was steady and very determined, clear as the air at the Mountain's peak in fine weather, and Thorin let himself believe, for Bilbo's courage had never failed them.

That night was one of the few in the ensuing month that Thorin spent well. He'd spooned mouthfuls of the hearty stew Bombur had left warming on a hearth for him, for once not bothered that it tasted of dust and ashes, as Bilbo talked animatedly of his plans upon reaching the Shire. At Thorin's insistence, Bilbo accepted a small box of jewelry, to be chosen on the morrow before his departure, in addition to the two chests, one filled with gold and the other with silver, that Thorin was glad to find Bard had already pressed on him. Bilbo's sputtering protests that he'd never be able to get all this treasure home without war and murder along the way died at Thorin's wry observation that Beorn had enough gold of his own to tempt robbers. Who were to be pitied, not feared, if they thought to attack a skinchanger and a wizard. Thorin was much gratified by the rueful shake of Bilbo's head at that, a grin spreading slowly across his face as he conceded Thorin's logic; Gandalf and Beorn would be _quite_ peeved at having to do more fighting.

And, as the hour grew late, Bilbo climbed onto the cot beside Thorin with no qualms, no hesitation—a fist had squeezed Thorin's heart in his chest at this easy show of trust—sharp tongue giving some unpleasant relations of his a thorough lashing until he fell asleep mid-sentence, sprawled on his front, one small hand curled loosely on the pillows between them. Thorin tucked the blankets around Bilbo, daring, finally, to smooth down a couple stray hairs as Bilbo snuffled at his feather-light touch. He hoped Bilbo's dreams were sweet, of the rolling hills of the Shire, green in the sunshine, and the snug rooms and passages of his home. Thorin did not know when he, too, fell asleep, watching Bilbo in mingled care and regret. No dreams greeted him after he closed his eyes.

**· · ·**

Thorin opened his eyes to darkness and silence. He sighed and pushed himself wearily from bed, dressing with practiced movements in the mid-December chill under the Mountain. It would be hours yet before dawn, but he would find no more sleep tonight. Lighting a single candle in a simple brass holder, he left his quarters and started walking, nodding cursorily to the guards in the hallway. He did not need the candle to see, of course, Dwarven eyes well adapted to the subterranean gloom of their realms and every path, every step in Erebor familiar to his feet. No, he needed the light to keep his ghosts at bay.

Out of the guest wing he went, serving as temporary living space for Erebor's scant five hundred or so current residents. Though there were inconveniences in Dwarves using furnishings meant for Men and Elves, the dozens of connected rooms set aside originally for visiting dignitaries, their families and entourages, had the benefits of being self-contained, with kitchens, a large dining hall, storage, public and private baths all within easy walking distance, and of including guard barracks that could house many. Structural damage to the guest wing was minimal, Smaug quickly bypassing it in favor of the grand staircase to the treasure chambers below, and the wing opened directly out into the main entrance hall, the thoroughfare that bisected the Mountain, not far from the front gates, where sentries were posted on the ramparts.

Better, too, that Erebor's once thriving residential areas be left to the cleaning and burial crews, followed by the surveyors and stonemasons until he and Balin had sorted through the rolls of the dead and missing for extant family claims among those who'd fled to the Blue Mountains and Iron Hills. In this, they were aided by the birth and dwelling registries found for them by Ori, who was cataloging the moldering library, disarrayed by its former caretakers in the rush to save what legal and historical documents they could from dragonfire. Between Balin's prodigious memory and the information sent by Dáin's wife, Lady Eir, in her twice weekly raven communications, they were restoring to their people their homes, one name at a time.

Proud as Thorin was of their work as the list of unaccounted for grew shorter, there were days when he could not see beyond the empty rooms, their occupants lost to the dragon and war, to the years of wandering, hardship upon misfortune. And those gaping spaces would haunt him at night, driving him from his bed. He arrived in the main entrance hall and turned to head deeper into the Mountain's depths.

The high ceiling was hidden in shadow, impenetrable even to Dwarven eyes with the upper levels uninhabited. His candle cast a wavering golden circle on the floor about him. Elsewhere, the hall's columned expanse, its many arched doorways and climbing staircases, was lit in green by foxfire pots. Scaffolding lined the walls where repairs were ongoing; the hall rang with the sounds of hammer and chisel from morning till dusk. Most of their efforts went towards replacing stone here marred by Smaug, the total erasure of his presence from this shared space, traversed daily by everyone in the Mountain, given precedence over bringing craft forges, mining shafts, coin presses—not needed with Erebor's vaults already filled to excess with gold—up to operational capacity. _In the spring_ , he assured himself, as he'd done before.

All of which made their winter quarters in the guest wing eminently suitable, even if Thorin sometimes felt an intruder in his own kingdom. Sleeping in a too large, too soft bed, the stone enclosing him of a subtly different hue and texture than that in the royal apartments several levels above. He woke more often than not, whatever he dreamed of—and he could not always remember, unsettled as the images slipped away—because he'd heard or thought he did the echo of voices lapping against strange walls, around corners he did not know the shape of.

Yet there was only ever an oppressive silence when he listened. Erebor's folk not long gone to rest, exhausted by after supper duties, and the midnight watch well into their shift but hours from the predawn change in guard. It was impossible to fall back asleep once roused. Worse, impossible to remain in his rooms, though Thorin had tried to busy himself with letters and reports. A twitching, restless strain would have him pacing like a caged beast, then finally walking the halls—wandering, searching. Weeks passed before he realized what he searched for, whose voices came to him in the quiet dark.

He took a set of side stairs, the grand staircase still under repair from Smaug worming his way down them, scoring and cracking rock as he squeezed his scaly bulk through. Thorin's destination was not the treasury, however, nor the Great Hall of Thráin, first of his name and founder of the Kingdom Under the Mountain, where once the Arkenstone had shone so bright.

Bitterness twisted his lips, the ugly expression sliding smoothly onto his face after the countless times he'd been struck by the irony. He'd believed he was at last rid of the Arkenstone with honor. The ill-fated jewel would be held forevermore in a pillar at the heart of the catacombs, he decreed, spilling its white light, as if a captured moon, upon the hallowed dead.

And, indeed, the patterned bands of gold and truesilver inlaid across the walls, floor, and even ceiling of the chambers where the lords of Erebor slept in tombs of stone shimmered with an unearthly beauty bathed in the Arkenstone's radiance. An awed gasp had swept through the gathered crowd as Thorin lifted the Arkenstone into place, his hands burning against its cool sides. The relief panels graven by the finest stonemasons among Dwarves sprang into flickering life with scenes of the world and their storied history; tens of thousands of tiny gems, flecked over every surface, flashed with mirrored rainbows, the stars in this created sky.

Thorin had withdrawn unnoticed as soon as the ceremony ended. It'd been his intention then to never again gaze upon the sight whilst he lived, unless duty demanded it of him. How quickly his resolve had broken! For reasons he could not, _would_ not understand, his mind sought refuge in the company of the dead when tallying losses put a tired ache in his bones and he doubted, to his shame, whether Erebor could be restored to prosperity. Prudent as it was to question his own competence in view of recent events, that he should fault, even in the privacy of his thoughts, the dedication and skill of his people was unacceptable.

Making his way past the treasure chambers to the catacomb stairs, Thorin wondered who awaited him there tonight, standing vigil next to their tombs or, in the case of his sister-sons, perched rather irreverently atop them. Fíli and Kíli were always brimming with youthful energy, as happy as he'd ever seen them in life and eager for news. They pestered him to tell them of how went the reconstruction.

 _Why not keep the gold spatters in the Gallery of Kings, Uncle? They're too many to scrape off, and they'd be a great conversation starter!_ Perhaps, Kíli, except I have no wish to speak of our failed attempt to kill Smaug. _Uncle, are the foundries to be overhauled? We left it a mess, and with Great-Grandfather's statue gone, there's no crafting that calls for so much gold._ That will be decided in the spring when work begins on those areas, Fíli, though I feel at least one of the furnaces can still be of use, as I've been considering that bars would be easier than coins to store and transport...

All that he'd never have a chance to hear Fíli and Kíli talk of, as the home they'd never know slowly but surely regained its former glory. Many had not lived to see it. And when those names seemed too many, it was his sister-sons who greeted him with twin grins of delight, their interest in Erebor's affairs keen for those who'd left the circles of the world.

Other times, Thráin greeted him with a solemn nod from beside a tomb that was empty. _Only for now_ , Thorin reminded himself. Only until Dís could bring what personal effects they had of their father: a magnificent war hammer, the last of his own forging, and a full set of armor commissioned for him on the occasion of his birthing day by Thrór not a decade before the coming of the dragon that he couldn't bear to don after Erebor's fall, both enameled in the deep red he favored; a wide and ornate belt wrought of gold and rubies by his future wife as a courting gift in assent to his suit that he'd worn on every anniversary of the day they wed to please her, even long after her death.

He'd wanted to recover his father's body from Dol Guldur, but Gandalf counseled against it, the shadow in his eyes giving Thorin pause. "The master of Dol Guldur was well versed in dark spells," Gandalf said reluctantly, suddenly unwilling to name Sauron, "and it took magic of equal strength to defeat him. Such power cannot be used, for good or ill, without consequence and leaves a... scar upon the land, a dissonance, that is a trap as fatal to trespassers as any the Dark Lord could devise."

Thorin's mind had gone then to Mirkwood, its twisted paths and poisoned streams, the trees, the very air pressing close. Gandalf watched him cannily from beneath the brim of his hat. "Yes, I see you understand me. I've asked the Elves to patrol the surrounding forest but to keep their distance. I ask that you also bar your people from venturing into the ruins." And Thorin had agreed.

"Had my father any words for me?" he asked after a moment. The taste of futility was sour in his mouth and all too familiar from his desperate search for Thráin among the slain of Azanulbizar.

"Only his love," was Gandalf's gentle answer. Thorin had rubbed at his prickling eyes with tightly balled fists at this, swallowing the cry that clawed up his throat.

Now, whenever Thráin took his leave of Thorin on his nightly visitations, he said, voice fading, _Remember that I love you, my son._ Thorin would promise to and thank his father for the advice—small yet helpful insights about managing resources, labor, which Thráin had cause to learn sooner and in greater detail than usual as Thrór turned away from the daily workings of his kingdom. The room was invariably empty of anyone but Thorin when he looked.

Was this the first sign of some creeping madness? It was not the gold sickness, consuming him from the inside like fire did tinder as he remained unaware. There was a... steadying feeling in speaking to his ghosts—impossible, Thorin knew, a figment of his unrest—and they did not intrude into his life beyond whispers at the edge of sleep, provided he lit a candle in dark halls and kept himself wholly occupied with his duties during the day.

In the latter, he had the aid of the Company, who had yet to give him any indication that his behavior was cause for alarm. Worry, yes, he saw sometimes on their faces. But this was the concern of friends, Thorin judged, not the fearful wariness of subjects dealing with a king lost to reason. For it was his poor appetite, his infrequent bouts of lethargy, and his disinclination to mingle at the weekly gatherings, which always ended in drinking and song until the wee hours of the morning, that warranted such expressions.

Thorin did what he could to reassure them. He feigned ignorance when Óin or Dori or Bifur ladled a little extra soup into his bowl, sliced him a slightly larger piece of bread, and he made sure to eat all of those meals, at least. He let Nori and Ori drag him from bed with pleas that he _must_ help them sort through this pile of fancy silverware etched with the royal seal or that stack of diplomatic correspondence written in his grandfather's hand while he let Balin call for tea breaks and snack breaks, afternoon naps and early stops to their after supper councils so he could deftly suggest that Thorin retire for the evening as they shared a bottle of wine.

He'd once or twice played the harp—a beautiful instrument of gold strung with silver, sound still sweet, that Nori had found hanging on a wall in the treasury, undisturbed by Smaug—at Bofur's tireless urging when the Company took it upon themselves to entertain at a gathering. Thorin could admit he enjoyed himself, might have smiled, even, at the rollicking tunes Bofur led them on, his clarinet swinging from high note to low as their audience clapped and stomped in time to the music, tankards of mead sloshing. But he would spend the next few nights listening to Fíli and Kíli complain that such-and-such piece needed a strong fiddle line, that Balin's viol needed tuning or maybe new strings entirely, they could not agree, that Ori needed to breathe deeper to hold long notes on his flute...

 _When more of our people have come home, will there be concerts and plays in the grand amphitheater again?_ Kíli. _You and Mother should attend, Uncle—_ Fíli. Then their words ran together, as tended to happen when they were excited. _Get your minds off work, work, and more work! Show royal patronage of the arts!_ "Yes," he would say, "yes," voice echoing hollowly in the perpetual hush of the crypts, and he would miss his sister-sons so acutely he did not think he'd feel a difference if Azog appeared to flay his skin to the bone.

It would be Fíli and Kíli tonight, Thorin finally decided, before amending, _Perhaps Grandfather._ He'd become practiced at guessing when he would wake in the dark to silence, unable to sleep for the whispering voices that led him down and down, down into the deep beneath the Mountain, where the dead awaited him. Thrór visited him less often than did his sister-sons or his father and had less to say, as well. Rather, the two of them would stand together in wordless penance as Thorin's candle burned to a stub, their guilt and shame binding them as tightly as the tainted blood in their veins. Those feelings were close to the surface now, Thorin knew, the suffering his actions had caused, however unintentionally, having come to his gates.

Thorin had been holding unofficial court, sitting alone at a table in the dining hall after the dishes were cleared with some old mining records to read so any who wished to could bespeak him, when one of the sentries posted on the ramparts reported that a column of about fifty approached on foot from the direction of Dale. He'd sent for Balin and mustered the guard—a precaution that, as the men neared, proved unnecessary.

For this was no enemy raid. The group's progress was slowed by carts laden with meager possessions and supplies, livestock, bedraggled women and children, the elderly, the infirm. Once Thorin determined that the Lakemen, Bard's tall figure in the lead, were not being pursued, he went forth from the Mountain to meet them, Balin and a score of guards trailing. He would not greet Bard as he'd done in their earlier parley, from atop a barricade. Not when he suspected, rightly, that Bard sought refuge for his people.

"Hail, Thorin son of Thráin, King Under the Mountain," said Bard, voice hoarse. "We beg shelter of you till spring." And Thorin had looked upon Bard with rising alarm. The man was almost swaying on his feet in exhaustion, his left arm bound to his side under his battered coat. The same dun-colored hide he'd worn when he first found the Company on the banks of the Forest River, though Thorin remembered him in warmer, finer blue. His face was pale, drawn with pain and, Thorin was startled to see, bruised along his jaw and across one cheek, as if he'd been struck.

Bard had swallowed hard at Thorin's questioning appraisal, body tense as a taut string. He was thrumming with a nervousness Thorin did not expect of a man who'd slain a dragon. "We would be glad to welcome you and yours, Lord Bard," Thorin answered, startled again by the disquiet in Bard's eyes at hearing himself titled as his deeds and wealth deserved. "But I was made to understand you would be wintering in Esgaroth, to remain there until the Men of the Lake had rebuilt their town"—Thorin suppressed a wince of his own—"and all was in readiness for you to reclaim Dale."

"Things have changed." The words were flat and told Thorin little while implying much, none of it good. "I cannot stay in Laketown," Bard finished heavily, and his expression was grim. Those of his son, at his side, and of his followers behind him could only be called mutinous, however. Thorin caught the angry mutter of the Master's name before Bard flinched, turning to quell the resentment with a glare like molten steel. When he moved, the collar of coat and shirt pulling open, another set of bruises, unmistakably fingermarks, stood stark against his throat in the fading light.

 _Greed can make beasts of men_ , thought Thorin, an ember of wrath glowing beneath his ribs. He and Balin exchanged a glance, Balin's lips thinned into a white line. The Dwarves of Erebor had made their position clear: To Bard, heir of Girion, who had done their kingdom a great service by killing Smaug, would go a fourteenth of the dragon's hoard, to be spent as he willed in aid of the people of Esgaroth and the refounding of Dale. Not a single coin of gold or silver would be paid to any other, for in truth Thorin mistrusted the Master of Laketown. Who would have taken his sister-sons, Óin, and Bofur hostage after rousing a mob against them had not Bard forewarned them to leave for Erebor, then swayed the survivors of Smaug's attack otherwise.

Seeing the evidence of violence on Bard's person affirmed his judgment of the Master's character, though this brought Thorin no satisfaction, for it left him with a petty despot not a day's trip downriver from Erebor. _And an honorless coward_ , he added with a grimace, _all the more dangerous for his serpent's tongue._ Despite rumors that the Master fled before the dragon with no consideration for his town's defense or evacuation, he'd apparently managed to talk himself back into favor with his subjects.

Not for the first time, he wondered why Bard didn't oust the Master from power in the weeks after Smaug's demise at his hands. Surely, Bard had the prestige and the ability, too; he'd had no trouble rallying his scared men, many of whom were more accustomed to wielding hoe than sword, during the battle and was bold enough in arranging matters as he deemed fit when it came to the care of the needy, according to Balin. Yet he submitted to the Master's authority, over and over. Even when the man set a pack of thugs on him, Thorin could only assume, to drive him from Esgaroth and eliminate a rival, secure in the fact that Bard's integrity and compassion would never allow him to stop the shipments of gold that will keep the townsfolk fed through the winter. _I know Bard is no fool nor blind. Why does he not act to foil the Master's schemes?_

"Da," said the girl, Bard's younger daughter, tucked into his side opposite his son, "are the Dwarves not going to let us stay?" Her question was soft and plaintive, muffled by the large woolen scarf wrapped snugly about her head and neck, blue as a robin's egg. Her brother, meanwhile, had edged protectively in front of their father and was glowering at Thorin. Who suddenly realized he'd been staring at Bard, teeth grinding in frustration. At least Bard also seemed a trifle surprised at the interruption. He peered down at his daughter with a slow sigh, his hand rubbing soothing circles on her shoulder.

When Bard met Thorin's eyes again, he tilted his chin up, gaze challenging. There was... something in Bard's posture that continued to vex Thorin. A bracing against a blow that could not be evaded, as if he knew exactly what Thorin had been thinking, expected it and _accepted_ it, meek in a way Thorin struggled to reconcile with the commanding nobility that was stamped so clearly on the man now.

Shaking his head sharply, Thorin said to the girl, "Fear not, my lady. The hospitality of the Dwarves is not so quickly retracted once granted." He smiled to watch her blush prettily at the courteous address, saddened that her eyes were raw from crying. "Come!" he said to the group at large, belatedly contrite that he'd kept his guests standing in the growing chill. "There are fires in our halls to warm you, soup, mead and ale to fill your stomachs, blankets, beds." And a ragged cheer had sounded down the column, men, women, and children animated with renewed energy at the prospect of an end to their long winter march. Only Bard was quiet, eyes shut as he nodded absently at the chatter around him, men clapping him on the back and women leaning in close to kiss him on the cheek in their exuberance, his daughter tugging excitedly on his sleeve. Thorin thought, a bit amused, that the man looked miserable under all the attention, stiff as a pillar of stone. His shoulders hunched at every touch.

The rest of the evening passed in a flurry of activity, Thorin ordering the entire able-bodied population of Erebor save the healers and sentries, some three hundred Dwarves, to prepare quarters for the Lakemen in the guest wing, find room for their stores and livestock—glad as Thorin would be to have fresh eggs and milk, beef, pork, they'd have to purchase feed from Rhûn or, unhappily, the Elves—and generally see to their comfort. Snow was falling thicker and thicker from the lowering skies by the time he followed the last of the refugees inside. They'd been fortunate in beating the storm to the Mountain and, as Thorin walked amongst them in the crowded dining hall, these tired and hungry people in their threadbare clothing, the flame of his anger had been fanned. Just what game was the Master playing at with Bard?

Determined to hear answers, Thorin had sought out Bard. To his annoyance, the man was not in the dining hall with his children—and where was his elder daughter?—nor with his men sorting their supplies, the women spreading sheets and blankets on the cots in the barracks where most of them would sleep. Finally, Nori, carrying an armful of bedding heaped half as tall as he, directed Thorin towards a small private suite that Balin as well as the Lakemen had insisted that Bard and his family take.

He'd received no reply to his knock or request for admittance and, impatient, let himself in, thinking Bard to be in the connected bath, which was divided from the bedchamber by another door, or not present at all. Instead, Bard was sitting on the bare stone floor, back pressed to the footboard of the bed and arms around his drawn up knees. At his side was a knife, lying close at hand atop his folded coat and sling, a candle, a roll of bandages and a shallow basin with a washcloth hung over its rim, the water within a light pink. Thorin had stopped short, blinking at the sight. Bard's gaze was distant when he entered, but it sharpened abruptly at the near noiseless scuff of his boots, focusing on Thorin with the unerring, piercing accuracy of one of the man's arrows, for all that Bard had been deaf to the world not a minute before.

"What do you want?" Bard said, tone clipped, and Thorin had to bite down on an equally rude retort. The sleeves of Bard's tunic hitched up momentarily as one hand, Bard moving the still healing left arm gingerly, dropped to the knife handle, the other to the floor, palm flat to push off it if needed. Thorin scowled at the implicit insult—as though he or any other Dwarf would seek to do harm to a guest and ally invited under his roof!—then breathed deep, forcing himself to calm.

More bruises marred Bard's wrists, discolored rings that spoke of ill treatment worse than Thorin had guessed. He could not blame Bard for his caution. From what he'd been told by the Men, those marks were the result of Bard's second arrest in as many months on spurious charges and in a place, by people, he knew far better than he did Erebor or Thorin.

"Are you hurt?" he asked, jaw tight. He'd also seen enough. Form demanded that he message the Master of Bard's safe arrival with his followers, but Thorin thought the Master could use a reminder that, without Bard's generosity, he and Laketown had no claim on Erebor's treasure that the Dwarves would recognize except pity. Which wore thin with every indication, mapped across the Dragonshooter's skin, that the gratitude of Esgaroth was a fleeting, fickle thing. "Do you need—"

"No," was the curt response and a baldfaced lie on Bard's part with his blood staining water and cloth. Thorin felt a sudden urge to grab Bard by the arm and drag that stubborn, prideful attitude of his unwilling to the healers. Did the man understand nothing of his position? Hailed as a hero by the Men, unusually friendly with the Elvenking, and bound to the Dwarves by the debt they owed him, Bard was in uniquely good standing with all three races. As King of Dale, he would be a political hinge upon which diplomatic and trade relations throughout the region would turn. If, that is, he didn't tax himself to sickness or death first. Thorin stoutly ignored Óin's voice in his head, chiding him that he was no model patient either.

Fuming, he made to step closer and argue his case. But Bard had blanched, his grip on the knife spasming, and said, simply, "... _don't_ ," in a low rasp that was half threat, half plea. Thorin frowned. What was there to hide? The Lakemen all knew of Bard running afoul of the Master's thugs and were not shy about airing his grievances in his stead; no shame attached to Bard for this incident. Nor was his reluctance to waste his people's energies on civil strife accounted as cowardice with winter upon them.

Bard finally seemed to sense Thorin's disbelief, for he continued, "Truly, I don't need— I'm un—" He swallowed, raking a hand through his hair, and visibly changed his mind on what he planned to say, his next words coming slower and more difficult. "My hurts are not serious. Just a few... scratches that I've already seen to and bruises that will be gone in a week or two." _Then why have you yet to let go of that knife?_ wondered Thorin. Bard's knuckles were white around the handle, faint tremors crawling up his arm. His voice, however, was smooth as chipped flint and as hard. "I thank you for your concern, Oakenshield, but it is not needed." _Nor wanted_ , Bard's expression said, his mouth firming in dismissal.

Thorin had bristled at being so brusquely refused. "As you wish," he gritted out. Then, in a last attempt at courtesy, he offered, "There are other chambers that you and your family may stay in, if your daughters would like a bed of their own." He vaguely recalled glimpsing several sleeping alcoves in Bard's former home, and Balin was arranging for the larger families—there was one extended clan with a dozen members, young and old—to occupy some of the more extensive suites. When Bard's face shuttered, gaze going cold, Thorin knew he'd made a grave mistake.

"I have only one daughter," Bard said, and Thorin almost would've preferred that the man stab him with the knife, rather than with this polite statement of fact, wrung dry of all emotion. "I bid you a good night, King Under the Mountain." Thorin had no memory of leaving. One moment, he was staring at Bard, stricken, then in a blink of an eye, he was outside in the hall, door shut behind him, trying to put a name to the face of Bard's eldest child and failing, _failing_. He'd braced his hands against the wall, fingers digging into the stone, as he fought not to scream. How could he have been so callous? So _stupid?_

 _"...fire in the night, all those people who_ burned _..."_ He'd known that a full quarter of the town perished in the inferno of its destruction, but somehow he never made the connection between those grim numbers, still better than they could've been by Bard's bravery, and mothers who'd lost their sons, fathers who'd lost their daughters, brothers and sisters torn apart, families and friends—the incalculable sum of human suffering.

He had blinded himself. He who'd watched as Dwarves that stood proud at his side for their initiation as warriors were crushed beneath Smaug's taloned feet and roasted alive in their armor, wailing high and thin as metal melted like acrid wax. Who'd heard the grind of crumbling stone, burying the fleeing, and smelt the gagging stench of charred meat, soot greasy on his lips. Men, women, and children—all were as sheep before a wolf, _vermin_ in truth, to the dragon, whose cruel malice was boundless. Thorin _knew_ this. As surely as he'd cleansed and prepared for burial with his own hands the desiccated bodies of the last of his people in the western guardroom, left by Smaug to a slow, wasting death in the suffocating dark, fearful and trapped.

And ramshackle Esgaroth, fishing its trade, unlike Erebor held no attraction for Smaug except what terror he could instill in its inhabitants before slaughtering them in revenge for the injury Thorin had done him. It was a bitter satisfaction that Smaug's arrogance proved his downfall; he'd been too intent on toying with his prey, lazily setting the town ablaze and flying low over the escaping boats, to take notice of a lone bowman.

Bard's stoic composure during their parley suddenly seemed remarkable, angry though his words had sounded to Thorin then. Thorin could not say that he would've treated at all in Bard's position, confronted with willful denial and a mighty army at his back. His kin newly laid to rest in the smoldering wreck of his home. Bard's daughter had been tall and lovely, lithe but strong as a young tree in fresh bloom. She'd struck Thorin in their brief, now only, acquaintance as practical and capable and much loved by her father.

Why did Bard not spit her name in his face? Of how Laketown had welcomed the Company and aided them on their way to the Mountain, of Thorin's promise that all would share in the wealth of Erebor, Bard spoke at length, no matter that he'd opposed the former because he valued the latter less than the safety of his family. But not once did he touch on the loss that family had suffered, his personal grief pushed so deep within Thorin was fooled. He'd spent long minutes in the hall outside Bard's door finding a reason: If Thorin could not be moved by the plight of hundreds, what was the death of one girl to him?

"—ire? Sire, are you well?" Thorin blinked owlishly at the concerned face of the guard before him. At some point, his feet had stopped. How long he'd been standing there, lost in thought as the guard tried to get his attention, Thorin could only imagine, flushing.

 _Just as well Dwalin is gone._ With Dwalin not due to return from the Blue Mountains till spring, the Dwarves on watch and patrol reported directly to Thorin. Otherwise, he had no illusions that his nocturnal wanderings would remain a secret from the Company. Who would descend on him with questions he wasn't sure he could answer. Not if he wanted to keep his nights unattended.

"Yes. I was—" Was what? Realizing again what a hash he'd made of things after the hidden door was opened? Heavy on his shoulders as the awareness was that Bard had judged him to be so consumed by greed and ambition that the lives of innocents meant nothing to him—and he could not even say that Bard was wrong about who he'd been then—Thorin had eventually forced himself back to the dining hall. Resolve filled him with each dragging step, to care for Bard's people as he should've done from the moment Smaug left the Mountain for Esgaroth.

The good cheer of the Men at having a warm meal to eat, their _gratitude_ at having a warm place to sleep, their children tucked close—it shamed Thorin. His cheeks still hurt from the false smile he'd worn for hours as he played the gracious host, assuring the Lakemen that, no, their presence was no trouble, that Erebor had resources aplenty, of course, especially with the additional supplies they'd brought, to support all through the winter. Until at last they were bedded down for the night, tired but hopeful. It was somewhat of a relief that Bard's son, at least, had not forgotten Thorin's responsibility in his family's sorrows, stance wary and an accusing glint in his eye as he inquired after his father, his sister's hand clasped firmly in his. Thorin had called Ori over to guide them to their quarters, the girl's sleepy parting wave at him a blow that stove his chest in.

"I was thinking," he finished weakly. Seeing the guard's hesitance, Thorin cleared his throat and said in his most authoritative voice, "As you were." Yet the guard lingered, neither saluting nor returning to his post. _If I don't want Balin to hear of this tomorrow..._ Thorin bared his teeth in what he hoped was a winning grin and lied, "I, too, am about to head back to where I should be: my bed. This walk has settled my mind." He frowned when the guard only looked more anxious.

"My lord," blurted the guard, "we—that is, me and the other lads on gold watch tonight—we are sorry to have to disturb you, but we truly don't know what to do with the man." _What man?_ Thorin had the unpleasant suspicion that he'd missed the beginning of this conversation. "Lord Balin granted him permission to enter the treasury unescorted, and we'd not heard elsewise, so we let him pass, but he hasn't come out and..."

While, as a rule, Dwarven sentries did not fidget on duty, the way this one shifted from foot to foot suggested that he badly wanted to. "Could you... go in and speak to him, sire?" the guard asked, eyes pleading. It must be Bard, for who else among the Men would have such leave? After the debacle of earlier, however, Bard was the last person Thorin wished to meet, and since they'd taken up residence in the Mountain more than a month ago, he'd avoided the treasure chambers, keeping abreast of the ongoing sort of the gold through daily tallies, figures and assessments laid out in neat, black columns and rows on paper. So it was with a coil of apprehension in his gut that Thorin nodded, gesturing for the relieved guard to lead him to Bard.

Bard, thankfully, had not ventured far into the treasury. Thorin remembered well how treacherous the footing was where the gold piled deep; every step had sunk into the loose mass of coins and gems until he crawled upon all fours like a beast in his haste. He descended the stairs slowly this time, to where Bard sat at the bottom, gold sloping away from under his worn boots to the cleared workspace where Dale's fourteenth share was being separated by cartweight for storage in an adjoining vault. The man seemed wholly fixated on a jewel-encrusted goblet he turned over and over in his hands, his back to Thorin, but he tensed before Thorin was within two flights of stairs from him, somehow aware of his presence and his identity.

"Great as the tales are of your grandfather's wealth, I never imagined that it would be like this," said Bard. He glanced briefly at Thorin as he came to stand on the steps, a little farther down past Bard so their heads were level. Thorin could admit, too, that he was not eager to make eye contact, though gazing out over the vast expanse of gold, glittering in the firelight of scattered cauldrons, brought him no joy either. He felt nothing. _Not mine_ , he thought, strangely detached, as his eyes traveled from a filigree necklace set with opalescent stones to a round shield plated in gleaming electrum. _Not mine._

From Bard's low exhale, some of the strain between them easing, staring at Thorin's back suited him just fine. "I did not have the chance to tell you before," he continued after a pause, "but it was wrong of me to threaten you with war when you and your companions numbered only thirteen." He laughed, quiet and self-deprecating. "Fourteen, if one were to count the Halfling.

"How I expected you to produce, on short notice, a _twelfth_ of _this_... I don't know." Bitterness crept into Bard's voice, surprisingly old for one who could not have seen fifty years of life. He was younger than Fíli and Kíli, Thorin realized with a jolt. Younger than Ori and even Gimli, who Glóin had adamantly refused a place in the Company. "There wasn't much that I knew then, aside from my own anger and fear." The sentence ended in a whisper. Age was reckoned differently by their races, Thorin reminded himself, and Bard was considered a man grown, a father and a widower, a leader, yet...

"What blame there is to be had for events then surely must be shared by many," Thorin found himself saying. A ludicrous spectacle they must have been! He could almost believe it to be a comedy in poor taste, were it not for—his lip twisted, and he had to squelch a vicious desire to grind the coins beneath his heel into gold dust, fruitless as that would've been—the ruin they'd courted, squabbling over baubles as their foes marched against them in force. If Elves, Men, and Dwarves had united sooner, could they have mounted a stronger defense? Spared the lives of some who'd died? "Myself not least. There were older heads who acted no wiser than you." His words were blunt. The Elvenking, for one, and Gandalf Thorin did not recall handling the situation much better. Would he never be done choking on the what-ifs?

Suddenly, Thorin tired of this talk. _Of what use are regrets?_ "Lord Bard, why do you think on these things?" he asked. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Bard flinch. Though whether at his tone, which was sharper than Thorin intended, or the title that sat so inexplicably ill with the man, he could not guess. When Bard did not reply, Thorin turned to look at him and immediately felt lower than a snake for giving his temper free rein. _As if I'd learned nothing of patience these past months._

Vulnerable was how Bard seemed and young, despite the silver threaded through his dark hair. He'd set down the goblet he was studying to draw his coat tight about his body, shoulders hunching and gaze focused on some point to the side, swallowed in the gloom of the chamber's far reaches where even the gold shone dim. Thorin was struck by a memory, of the wild fox that slipped into his camp one night while he chased rumors of his father in Dunland.

He'd slept lightly and kept Deathless close at hand, as the Dunlendings were not known for their hospitality to travelers, constantly warring with the Horse-lords to their south. At the rustling of grass, he rolled into a crouch from his blankets, expecting to confront brigands, only to find himself face to face with a lean fox, its russet fur limned in white by the moon. Bard's stillness was the same as that fox's—wary and watchful, in a way that exceeded human senses and instincts, poised on the edge of flight. Thinking of how quickly the fox had vanished, darting into the brush as Thorin stared, frozen in mid-motion, he opened his mouth to apologize.

But Bard spoke first. "You're right," he said, voice strained. He let out a forceful sigh, eyes closed, and tension leaked from his tall frame like juice running from a smashed fistful of berries, red and tart. "What's past is past. It... doesn't matter. Not anymore." Thorin wondered who Bard was trying to convince. Men were no better than Dwarves when it came to forgetting and forgiving, for all that their lives were half as long; they bequeathed their hatreds to their children and their children's children, until the reasons why they fought were utterly lost.

"I suppose I owe you an apology, too, for the guards waking you," Bard added, expression one of wry humor and false good cheer that Thorin inwardly winced to see. "Won't happen again." His words took on the sound of a dire vow.

"No," Thorin said hastily. "No, it's no trouble." He would've been awake regardless, and he understood the need to escape the confines of one's room, the walls shrinking to form a tomb of stone, even if he didn't know what haunted Bard so as to drive him from his family's side to wander Erebor's empty, echoing halls. "You have my leave to go where you wish, at any time, save for personal quarters and areas that have not yet been deemed safe by the surveyors."

Upon further reflection, however, Thorin would rather not have curious Lakemen exploring the foundries and gold mines. There were clearly aspects to the cohabitation of their peoples that they had to discuss. With a frustrated noise, he amended, "Keep your men to the guest wing and main entrance hall for now. I'll have floor plans sent to your rooms with common and restricted spaces marked." Bard nodded, looking a little nonplussed. "Your permission to enter the treasury unescorted stands, and I shall inform the guards not to disturb you while you're here." At this, Bard slumped in faint relief, and Thorin felt mildly pleased that he'd read aright the man's motives for sitting alone, surrounded by cold, silent treasure, while his children slept sound in their bed.

"You have my gratitude, Oakenshield," said Bard. Thorin inclined his head in acceptance, before turning back to the gold that held no more attraction for him, their conversation over. He did not mind Bard's presence so much once the other grew accustomed to his, the last of Bard's seemingly ingrained caution unwinding in small, gradual increments as the two of them waited together for the predawn change in watch.

Thorin had discovered, through mortifying experience, that if he were not in the guest wing when one of the Company came to fetch him for breakfast, they would rouse everybody and ransack the entire Mountain from top to bottom in search of him. At least the Company was as embarrassed as he when they finally tracked him to the dining hall, where he'd been looking in confusion for the cooks and at the bowls of porridge abandoned half eaten on the tables. Balin, especially, had the air of one who hoped for the floor to melt away under his feet, when Bofur, with his typical frankness, blurted, "Oh, thank Mahal you're alive!" to Thorin's raised eyebrow, his stiff, suspicious, "And why wouldn't I be?"

A great deal of evasive stammering had followed, Thorin torn between being touched at their concern and insulted. He was not an honorless coward, to deny Dís her due. _And Mahal created us to endure._ But, watching Nori and Ori take turns unsubtly kicking Bofur in the shins as Balin and Dori offered conflicting explanations, none quite credible, Thorin could not fault them for this momentary faltering of their faith in him. They had stood staunch by his side in all else. At Óin's shooing, they'd resumed the important business of eating, and except for a final gentle cuff on the ear that Bifur gave Bofur as they walked to their table, Thorin in the middle, it was a day like any other.

Later, Thorin would realize how fortunate he was that the searchers had begun in the upper levels, with their many precipitous ledges and bridges, while he took several of the less traveled passages up from the catacombs to the dining hall, obliviously doing a spot of surveying. That nobody, then or afterwards, thought to question the night guards, gone to their beds before all the commotion.

He was more careful now to keep the Company informed of his whereabouts, helped by a new awareness of what his restless spirit sought, and the Company not so quick to distrust him with his own well-being, their fears proving to be unwarranted in an episode they were not keen to repeat. Not that Thorin had any doubts search parties would be sent out again if he were ever so delayed as to not make an appearance by mid-morning.

And thus, when he heard the guards greet their relief, voices tiny and distorted, he started back up the stairs, feeling lightened. The cringing part of him that had dreaded seeing the treasure—expected the fever-hot lust for gold to burn in his flesh, reignited—was more settled, though Thorin knew it would never be excised completely and was resigned to the fact. Thankful, even, for another check on the sickness. _I pass the test._ He smiled mirthlessly. _This time._

Only a couple steps and he stopped, unable to leave without a word to Bard. Who was, in truth, not like to notice the lack of courtesy. Bard's interest in the gold had apparently waned; his eyes were instead on his hands, the right rubbing at the bruises around his left wrist as if he could, against all logic, _press_ them out of existence or at least deeper into the skin, out of sight. Thorin cleared his throat, but whatever he planned to say— _good of us to have had this talk, breakfast will be served in two hours, come to me should you and your men require something?_ —it withered into an uncomfortable silence when Bard turned on him a gaze as blank as wet slate.

Not hostile, no, Thorin decided, uneasy at these unpredictable shifts in Bard's mood. _Merely... remote._ Bard was a plain man not given to fancies, and it was jarring to see in him a detachment which rivaled that of the Elves, body a vessel spun of air and glass for a mind that was elsewhere. "Can you find your way?" Thorin finally asked. He ignored the double meaning and the crawling sensation that he spoke to a husk in the shape of a man.

Just as Thorin reached out with a cautious hand to shake the nearest shoulder, Bard's consciousness snapped back into his body. He jerked, as though he'd been startled awake from a dreamless sleep, blinking. Thorin grunted when Bard's hand reflexively caught his by the wrist, wrenching his arm sharply away and down. Luckily for them both, before Thorin's own battle-honed instincts could mistake Bard's actions for an attack, Bard looked, still a bit dazed, at where his fingers were locked vise-like around Thorin's wrist and hastily released his grip, expression horrified.

"F-Forgive me," Bard said hoarsely, head bowed so that his hair hid his face. He clenched his trembling hands together, fingers twisted at ugly angles, his forearms resting heavily upon his knees.

Thorin flexed his fingers; Bard's grip had pinched some of the feeling from them, though it would take more to bruise Dwarven skin as Bard's was. "I am overtired, Oakenshield," Bard explained, as Thorin eyed him in belated recognition. "I—" Swallowing, Bard tried to continue, but his voice broke. The wounded noise that forced its way past Bard's gritted teeth hurt to hear.

Dwarves were, on the whole, a hardy folk, their bodies and wills created to resist the evils of the world, whether these were of another's making or simply the vagaries of fate. Azanulbizar and the terrible war that had ended there, however, not thirty years after Erebor's devastating loss had been misery too much even for them. This wild veering between a numbness to everything except images in the mind and an almost painful acuity of the senses, the sights and sounds, smell and feel of normal life overwhelming, _threatening_ —it was familiar to him.

 _He was but a bargeman_ , thought Thorin. While Bard had certainly proved his skill as an archer and wielded a sword well enough to survive the battle, slaying dragons, orcs, and goblins was nothing he'd ever trained for. Even without the added burden of leading the stricken people of Esgaroth when the Master was negligent, which by all accounts was often in the weeks following Smaug's demise.

"Then you should rest," he suggested, tone deliberately light. Bard was calming—remarkably fast, and Thorin wondered at his iron control—the only remaining sign of his distress the hand that had fisted in his hair, tugging, in what seemed like aborted attempts to pull it out by the roots. "Come," Thorin said. "Let me show you the shortest path from here to the guest wing." He could not turn his back on the man now and, what's more, he had no desire to spend his morning dealing with panicked Lakemen, asking after their missing lord, if Bard didn't return to his children before they woke. Bard's son held little trust in Thorin. _I cannot blame the boy for that._

Bard nodded curtly, standing in a motion just as abrupt. "I would appreciate it," he said, and his voice was filled with jagged gravel. Yet it was clear from Bard's rigid stance that he wanted Thorin to forget his moment of weakness. This need, too, Thorin understood.

He and Bard walked in mutual silence back to the man's quarters. Dwarves moved through the halls, most heading to breakfast, but there were few Lakemen about, Bard's people likely exhausted still from the daylong journey to Erebor. They were greeted with respectful calls of "my lords" and "Your Majesties" that Thorin acknowledged with brief nods. Bard beside him, trailing a bit, wasn't as inclined to answer, stiffening each time, and Thorin thought with an inward huff of disbelief that Bard had better accustom himself to receiving deference sooner rather than later.

 _You are not a bargeman anymore, Dragonshooter._ Thorin would bet the whole treasury against Nori or Dori, who had something of a reputation as a cardsharp, that a crown would grace Bard's head inside five years, over his protests. Fíli had been right: Bard cared nothing for titles and sought no power unless it were to protect that which he loved. It would not have occurred to him that Thorin could value face above life, refusing to treat with him so as not to appear weak before the gathered armies of the Elvenking and Iron Hills alike. Erebor and Dale depended on them reaching a closer accord; Thorin was content to be grudging allies with Thranduil, whose realm did not border his, but not with Bard.

When at last Thorin stood in front of Bard's door once again, watching him enter with a whispered thanks, he said, haltingly, "Your daughter. What was her name?" It would not change the past to hear it nor lessen his guilt, but Thorin was not who he had been, and it mattered to him now. That he recognize Bard's loss in this small, inadequate way. He straightened under Bard's coolly assessing stare, shoulders tense to brace for a bitter rejection or, worse, accusation. _Ruin and death._

A faint voice drifted from within the room, high and childish—Bard's surviving girl. "Da, is that you? Where did you _go?_ " A rustling of blankets and an unhappy murmur from Bard's son. "I woke, and you were not with us, l-like... But Bain wouldn't let me go find you..." Thorin was struck by how Bard's features softened.

Grim was the word that came most readily to mind when describing Bard. His look was wiry and angular, weathered by hardships that had left their mark in the thin creases at the corners of his eyes and mouth, the calluses on his work-roughened hands. At the first sound of his children, however, his brow smoothed and affection lent his face a warmer cast. The walls of suspicion that seemed an inseparable part of the man, keeping all at arm's length, split apart, but it was less the forcible breaking Thorin had witnessed earlier than the opening of a hidden door, a path to Bard's heart known only to two. A pang stabbed through Thorin. _Was I not the same with Fíli and Kíli? Frerin and Dís?_

"Go back to sleep, sweetling," said Bard, half turned towards the bed. "I was just on one of my walks. We're safe here." There was a drowsy hum of agreement before his children fell into the steady rhythms of rest, their breath whooshing quietly, soothed. A suggestion of softness lingered in Bard's eyes when he turned back to Thorin, the hard line of his jaw gentled. "Sigrid. Her name was Sigrid." He wondered who had named her, Bard or his departed wife.

Thorin nodded. Bard spoke his daughter's name in mingled pride and grief. With another nod—he understood, remembering Fíli and Kíli clad as the princes they were in gilded mail—Thorin made to leave, but Bard stopped him. "The two of your companions who died in the battle, Fíli and Kíli?" he asked, tongue careful around the names. "Were they not your sister-sons?"

"Yes." More than a month had gone, and Thorin could finally meet such a question with composure, even if his throat threatened to close. Still, he hoped Bard was not interested in further talk. He was weary and wanted to escape to his duties; Balin and he were scheduled to begin ordering the mines for re-exploration in the spring.

Bard, to his relief, merely sighed, saying, "I see," tone low but not unkind. After a solemn pause, the man bowed his head to Thorin, right hand over heart in a fashion that he must have learned from the Elves, and shut the door. _A start_ , Thorin thought, cautiously encouraged. Not until he stepped into the dining hall—Balin, a spread of schematics on his table instead of food, was already consulting with the master mining engineers among the Dwarves from the Iron Hills—did Thorin realize he never found out which of his ghosts awaited him, deep beneath the Mountain.

**· · ·**

Over the next week, Thorin saw little of Bard. At least during the day. From his tentative questioning of Bain, who fetched meals for his father, Bard slept at odd hours and had since Laketown's destruction by Smaug near two months ago, stress and injury exacting their toll. Thorin's further attempts to convince the man to seek the healers were frustrated—

_"Da doesn't like to be touched by strangers when he's like this," said Bain, expression mulish, while Thorin reflected sourly that the Elvenking, who'd set Bard's broken arm after the battle, seemed an exception._

—but at last Bain, biting his lip worriedly, agreed to take a jar of Óin's all-purpose topical salve with a promise that he would give it to his pigheaded father. _To do with as he pleases._ Thorin discovered that he had new sympathy for Gandalf, whose mysterious agenda thus far largely consisted of bludgeoning the free peoples of Middle-earth into doing the best thing that they didn't want to. Surely, though, _he_ could not have been so willful? Recalling trolls and goblins, the glimmer of hidden moon runes, Thorin decided that it was probably easier on what remained of his pride to let bygones be bygones.

Not that Bard was remiss in his duties, conferring daily in his rooms with the men and women he'd charged with seeing to the others, his son running messages for him. His people were eager to be of use, at his urging, once their initial awe at living in the Mountain subsided. Though stonemasons they were not, there were skilled carpenters among them who were quickly recruited to inspect and repair common furniture as well as the many pieces that were now without owners, emptied of personal effects.

It had not felt right to chop into kindling serviceable beds, dressers, tables, and chairs, beautifully carved under the layers of dust, like what had been too damaged by fire or water to salvage. Yet neither did it feel right to do anything except store these abandoned possessions, the touch of the dead ghosting across knobs and armrests worn smooth. Bifur had suggested to Bofur, who proudly shared the idea with Balin, that an auction house be opened when more had taken up permanent residence and the proceeds set aside in a royal fund to benefit the sick and wounded, orphans and widows. Thorin thought that a fine solution. So, Dori was assessing the furniture with the Men and Ori compiling an illustrated inventory, when not cataloging the library.

Work on the main entrance hall was nearing completion and ahead of schedule. Bard's men could not help much with hammer or chisel, but their backs were strong, the reach of their arms long, and they did not shy from toil. Better still, the women had commandeered the kitchens, sparing Dwarves from meal preparations and everybody from the somewhat rougher fare that had been served since Bombur departed for the Blue Mountains.

Dáin had understandably chosen for fighting prowess and endurance, not culinary talent, expecting the forced march from the Iron Hills to end in battle, as it did—a fact that showed in burnt crusts of bread, the same porridge and soup day after day. Thorin did not fully appreciate what a difference Bombur had made before until their tables were again laid with flavor and variety. Sweet and savory, fresh meat and dairy, pickled fruits, vegetables, and fish—it was amazing how a satisfied stomach could lift the spirits. The kitchens never lacked for hands willing to haul buckets of water or peel onions by the dozen, if it meant they could sit by a toasty hearth, wreathed in the smells of wood on the fire and hearty cooking.

The women even found more palatable uses for Erebor's large stock of _cram_ , which Thorin had imagined would go uneaten until there was nothing else. Besides grinding the stale biscuits into feed for the animals, they sprinkled crumbles of _cram_ on soups, fried strips of _cram_ in creamy butter, and baked chunks of _cram_ with milk, eggs, nuts, and preserved fruits to make a warm dessert, topped with sugar, that was, shockingly, delicious. A cluster of smiling women and Dwarves exchanging recipes as they scrubbed clean tables and dishes became a regular sight in the dining hall.

Bard's daughter, meanwhile, whose name Thorin learned was Tilda, was making headway in what he had thought a hopeless cause.

It was an aching joy to hear the Mountain's halls ring once more with the laughter of children, whatever their race. They were fascinated by Erebor's nooks and crannies, formed of stony geometric planes so unlike the rickety wooden structures of Laketown, and the innumerable stairs ascending and descending to places wondrous in their mystery. Soon enough, the guards were recruited by frazzled parents to keep their children, who were getting lost looking for the dragon's hoard like brave Mister Baggins, from mischief. Thorin could not but be amused at Bilbo inspiring a new generation of burglars. Wary of little fingers with a love for shiny trinkets, though, he posted keen-eyed Dwarves on every path to the lower levels.

All of the adults, himself included, breathed a collective sigh of relief when the children's energy finally settled down to a manageable level. Helped, no doubt, by the institution of daily lessons in reading, writing, and figures taught by an elderly couple, formerly the proprietors of Esgaroth's lone bookshop, and a Master Dofur, one of the Iron Hills' best draftsmen, whose generosity with his time was surprising until Nori told Thorin that his family was near as big as Bombur's.

"Get a couple gallons of mead into that dwarrow, and he'll talk your ear off about his ten, twelve bairns without stopping," Nori had said, chuckling. "Unless it's to talk about his wife!" Thorin was a bit skeptical—Master Dofur seemed as unbending as the long birch rule he rapped over the knuckles of his students should they dare be inattentive—but it was Nori and Bofur's business to know such things, the two of them gregarious and fond of drink and Balin's unofficial spies.

Of the Company, the children gravitated to Bifur and Bofur, Balin and Óin. Bifur delighted them with ingenious toys, birds with flapping wings and horses in gallop; rarely did Bofur come to supper without a giggling young passenger seated upon his shoulders, hands pulling on the ends of Bofur's hat like reins.

As for Balin, Thorin was convinced that they were enamored with his beard, snowy white and fluffy as a cloud. Balin had developed a bad habit of letting some pint-sized waif of indeterminate gender nap pillowed on his beard during his afternoon councils, having found that the presence of a sleeping child precluded any raised voices. The children's favoring of Óin, however, both pained Thorin to see and was the most welcome.

When they were at lessons or play, it was easy to forget that these children had survived the loss of their home and, for too many, family in a firestorm such as had shaken hardened warriors decades their elders. But in the healing ward, their faces scrunched in concentration as they rolled bandages and sorted pungent herbs for medicines, their scars were impossible to miss. Whether a burn stretched pink across the back of a girl's arm or a boy who resembled his father so in his grim resolve.

For the assistance, Óin was grateful, always glad to impart his knowledge and patient with their well-meant mistakes, but he was even more grateful for how they cheered his other charges. While those with less severe injuries had already been released from his care, save for periodic appointments to check that broken bones were mending in place, dozens remained still, in need of long term rehabilitation or too sore wounded to move much at all. These Dwarves and Men took quickly to the children. Sick, perhaps, of brooding on their own ills and wanting to provide comfort instead of receiving it.

And, in one corner, a dying Elf was being woken to life.

Eight days passed in the Mountain before Thorin steeled his nerves to speak to the redheaded she-Elf. Tauriel, the Elvenking had named her. Only Thorin need not have bothered. She could tell him nothing of his sister-sons, lying motionless on her cot as if carved whole out of pale marble. Her form and features were unmarred except for the arm, her left, she'd lost at the elbow in the battle. Yet were it not for the slow rise and fall of her chest, she could've been a particularly lovely corpse, her open eyes staring and vacant. He'd listened, incredulous—

_"The Elven healers warned me of this." Óin glanced pityingly at her from where he and Thorin stood off to one side, whispering. "Their kind is blessed with great power to heal from wounds that would kill a Man but can waste in grief, if there is not the will to live."_

_Anger spiked so swiftly in Thorin that it stole his breath away. He had to bite his tongue not to hiss that this Elven interloper had no right to mourn either of them and, by doing thus, deny him answers. It was with difficulty that he asked, tone harsh, "Is there any chance of recovery?"_

_"Mayhaps," said Óin, but he was shaking his head. "She's young for one of them, and her ties to these shores are strong. It was hoped that, should she wake, she might make her peace with the lads here, in their home, but..." He sighed, then, steps heavy, left Thorin to scowl furiously down at the oblivious Elf._

—as Óin explained what ailed her. Thorin had stayed, despite wanting to strike that impassive Elven face, there at the foot of her bed until his rage ebbed into a bleak nothingness. Clasped tight in her one hand was Kíli's runestone, the deep gray shimmering blue and green, framed by her slender fingers. Kíli would not have given away his mother's gift to him lightly. Nor had it been received lightly, from what Óin had seen. The Elf refused to part with the stone, unconsciously fighting the healers who'd tried to pry it from her grasp, though she slipped further into dreams with each dawn.

Whatever affection bound Kíli and this Tauriel, it'd been true, for her as well as him. Thorin saw that now, too late. That she had fallen defending Fíli and Kíli, an Elven princeling made a certain terrible sense; there was little in this world as dear to Kíli as his brother, and she must have been close to Thranduil's son indeed, for him to have followed her to Laketown alone. _An Elf and a Dwarf..._ Thorin thought he might eventually have been browbeaten into suffering even so... unconventional a union, if only his sister-sons were alive to flout his wishes and the traditions of their people, Kíli defiant and Fíli at his brother's side, as always. Fíli would've plied every underhanded political trick he knew to win acceptance for the unlikely match, and neither would've been above exploiting their mother's undisguised desire for grandchildren to join her strength to theirs.

But Dís would never hold a grandchild in her arms, he remembered. Fíli was dead, and so was Kíli, the Elf he'd lost his heart to seemingly set on fleeing to the grave after him. A stifling pressure had welled in Thorin's chest the longer he gazed upon her, pushing at his ribs from within, but his skin was dry, gritty, like sand scorched by the sun.

He at last left her to sleep, his bones creaking as if they couldn't support his weight and fully expecting that he would soon hear word of her death: a quiet, merciful passing between one breath and the next. Was this what the Elvenking had meant? Thorin could believe that of Thranduil, whose notions of kindness were harsher than most. It had come as a surprise to, not four days after the Lakemen arrived, learn from Óin that she'd responded to Tilda.

Tilda had taken to sitting with the Elf when done with her chores in the healing ward, the fingers of one small hand twined around hers over the runestone and the other stroking her fire-bright hair. Óin suspected that Tilda missed her sister and looked to Tauriel to soothe that absence, the Elf having made a strong impression on her during their time together in Laketown. It'd been Tauriel who led Tilda along with Fíli, Kíli, and him to safety through the burning maze of canals, Óin said softly. And Thorin had closed his eyes with a silent curse at fate, fearing that Bard's daughter was doomed to grieve for an Elf she hardly knew.

A girl humming lullabies to one who could not hear them—the tableau was all too clear in Thorin's mind and piercing, beautiful in the way of shortlived things. It was cruel, he'd felt, to let her hope so, firmly insistent that Lady Tauriel was too brave not to wake, almost as brave as Da, that she merely needed a kind touch and a kind voice to guide her back to them, but Óin confessed he hadn't the heart to stop her, and neither did Thorin in the end nor, it appeared, Bard and Bain.

"Da says to let her try." Then, crouching to hug his sister close, Bain told her gently, "You're doing good, Tilda." Watching the girl clutch at her brother, head buried against his shoulder as she nodded, Thorin realized in a sudden flash of insight that this was more than the compassion of a sweet child or even the longing for a loved one departed. The stricken Elf reminded Tilda of somebody she cared deeply for, and he had a guess as to who.

Yet Tilda's faith proved right. The Elf woke, briefly, squeezing the girl's hand and rasping, "What a lovely song..." before falling into a lighter sleep. Tilda had beamed with happiness for the rest of the day while Óin berated himself for not considering the role of song in Elvish healing, though he admitted sheepishly to Thorin that he was ill-qualified to administer this treatment, being rather tone deaf.

His patient improved steadily thereafter, _sung_ back to health by a dedicated cadre of more musically talented volunteers and, of course, Tilda. In truth, Thorin thought the whole affair queer. He grimaced. _Elves!_ He would be able to speak with this Elf as he wished to in the spring.

All eagerly awaited the melting of the snows, heads filled with plans to build and plant. Thorin, though... Part of him dreaded the great labors ahead. Glad as he was for the air of industrious optimism that pervaded the Mountain, it was exhaustion that he felt more often than not. Weariness weighted down his limbs as the hours of the day blurred into one continuous stream, time marked only by meetings and meals. Watching his people and Bard's mingle in the dining hall—the Men were fond of staging plays there in the evenings, alternately bawdy tales of romantic entanglements and swashbuckling adventures in exotic climes—always brought a smile to his face, but he sat apart, in the midst of the laughing crowd. As if he, too, were asleep and dreaming.

It was the way he spent his nights, however, that made his sense of unreality palpable. Conscious of his need for rest, he would take to his bed determined to not leave it until morning, and he was on occasion successful in that, for which he was grateful.

Other times, Thorin woke, in the dark and to no sound except his own breathing, hours before the sunrise. He'd sighed at this return to routine and dressed with practiced movements; there was some stubborn inkling in his mind that the arrival of the Men would change his weakness, as so much else. Kíli must have wanted news of his Elven captain, who had herself so recently been awoken from slumber. Thorin didn't find out.

As he walked the familiar path through echoing halls to the catacombs, his feet instead decided to detour again to the treasure chambers, moved by a vague hunch. He questioned the guards, learned that his instincts were correct and, after a moment's hesitation, entered, trying to skirt the places where the gold piled deep as he searched for Bard.

Thorin had no clear idea then of what to say to the man, aside from assuring himself that Bard was as well as could be expected given that he was frustratingly elusive and his son evasive when Thorin inquired after him. _If you could give me less cause to worry..._ Resisting the urge to glower at the heaps of coins and gems, Thorin reminded himself that Bard was a stranger still to the scrutiny, by friend and foe alike, under which a king lived.

Bard had turned his attention to where the weapons scattered throughout the hoard were being collected. Some would go to Erebor's armory, the plainer axes and shields scaled for Dwarven hands, but it had not yet been settled what was to be done with the rest. There were arms and armor so elaborately ornate that it was not fitting for them to be wielded or worn by common guardsmen, though the Company had donned and used similar before the battle for lack of anything else, and a significant number of the finest items were of a size for Elves or Men, kept to gift and trade. Thorin had huffed, unsurprised, to see Bard at a rack of bows, testing the draw of one curved like Kíli's, the tips bending away from the archer.

While Thorin preferred the sword or ax, he was not entirely incompetent with the bow, able to identify different weapons and roughly judge skill, though not with Kíli's studied expertise. All Dwarvish bows were of this type, for reasons Thorin didn't understand despite Kíli's repeated attempts to explain it, and the design was not unknown to the Elves, even popular with the Easterlings, but the Men of the Lake seemed to favor straighter longbows. Bard, certainly, was as intent on examining the bow in his hands as if he'd never before held one of its like. For possibly the first time since they met, Bard was relaxed and unconscious of it, his guard down; Thorin had not missed the rare chance to observe the man without his notice, stopping half a dozen paces from him.

Kíli was unstinting in his praise of Bard the Bowman, Thorin remembered. He'd sought his sister-son's opinion as the Company, wet and miserable, clung to the pilings beneath the boardwalk alongside Bard's home, waiting for the signal to make their ignominious entrance. Bard's skill with the bow was an anomaly, his weapon finer than anything else he owned as well as illegal, given how he'd secreted it away in a compartment in the deck of his barge; Thorin hoped to take a better measure of the man by assessing that skill. And if it could brighten Kíli's wan face to talk of the archery that was his passion, to be of aid in counseling Thorin on a matter the rest knew naught of...

"The skill of the Elves is as great as the tales say," Kíli had enthused, not the slightest bit deterred by Dwalin's low growl or Thorin's sour look. Worse, neither of them could dispute the truth of Kíli's statement. No archer Thorin had ever seen or even heard of could've matched the feat of hitting target after live target while hurtling down a whitewater river, footing dangerous, though the blond Elf's fleet grace put the lie to that.

"But to meet a Man whose talent doesn't pale in comparison..." Kíli mused, brow furrowed. "Uncle, I wager that he's shot before with Elves." Kíli's voice was wistful beyond his younger self's dream to learn from every master of the bow no matter their race, but Thorin had been too startled to notice it then. Was it not indeed strange that a simple bargeman had called the Elvenking by name?

At his demand for an explanation, Kíli had observed that Bard nocked his arrows, which were so long as to be almost unwieldy, with a twisting side sweep from his angled back quiver—Kíli tried to mime the motion for Thorin's benefit; Fíli had to fish his sinking brother up out of the water by the collar—that was unlike any taught by Men. Or at least Men west of the Misty Mountains, Kíli admitted, thoughtful. He was not familiar with eastern traditions past what stories he'd managed to wheedle from traders of Haradrim archers thundering into battle atop giant oliphaunts.

"There's something Elvish about that bow of his, too. The curve of it or..." Kíli groaned in frustration. "If only I could've gotten a closer look at it! The wood is yew—I'm sure of it—but it's taller than any hunting bow and must draw at a hundred pounds and ten, twenty, maybe more. Yet he shoots with accuracy enough to leave my hand unscathed!" He studied said hand, turning it this way and that, fingers curled around an imaginary stone, with a frankly admiring gaze. "Speed's not bad either, though not so quick as the Elves, of course. His range must be, _oh_ , two, three..." Fíli and Thorin had exchanged a bemused glance at Kíli's distraction; they'd long figured that questions of archery left little room in his head for other concerns. But Kíli was smiling, the pain of his wound temporarily forgotten, so they did not interrupt.

Watching Bard run sure hands over a bow's smooth wood, Thorin could at last see something of what Kíli had so admired in his fellow archer: clean lines and a steady, unshakeable control, no sign of strain across arms, shoulders, and a back strong enough to easily draw a bow a full head taller than a tall Man. He wondered if Bard had trained with the Elves, as Kíli guessed, or if he came by this effortless power naturally as soon as a bow was placed in his hands. Glimpsing the boyish smile on Bard's face, his eyes bright, Thorin thought it might be the latter. Though he'd meant to leave the man in peace, he found himself saying, "I will make you a gift of any of the bows here, if you wish it."

He regretted speaking barely two words in because he'd well and truly startled Bard. Who tensed and spun in a tight quarter circle towards Thorin's voice, bow lowering to nock an arrow that his hand reached for but wouldn't find. Upon recognizing him, most of Bard's wariness eased, Thorin was inordinately pleased to note, though he felt the long-suffering sigh that followed was uncalled for.

"Oakenshield," Bard greeted with a nod, before putting the bow he held back in place on the rack with the others. His fingers were reluctant to part with it, lingering on the grip of polished horn. "Your offer is generous," he said after a pause, "but..." He pulled his coat about his body against the subterranean chill. "These are very fine weapons."

Thorin had frowned. He couldn't imagine why that would be a problem. "And you are a fine archer. Surely, the skill that slew Smaug deserves a bow worthy of that deed?" No matter his losses and grievous they were, Bard ought to be proud of killing that beast, Thorin deemed, avenging in one mighty blow the dead of Esgaroth, Dale, even Erebor. His forefather Girion, whose sacrifice had not been in vain, and his daughter Sigrid.

According to Fíli and Bofur, who'd caught the fateful moment, Bard hadn't even loosed the black arrow from the windlance like Thorin originally believed; Smaug was too old, too canny not to recognize and destroy the weapon that had nearly been his doom two centuries prior. Rather, Bard had broken his great yew longbow making a shot that, by all rights, should have been impossible. The black arrow was no normal arrow: twice the length, if not half as heavy as its size implied. It was, after all, forged hollow and of a lost metal alloy in a crafting no Dwarf alive could equal; Thorin would've liked to see it in action under better circumstances.

Bard apparently didn't agree, shaking his head slowly. "No," he insisted, jaw tight and the fingers of his left hand flexing. He smiled mirthlessly at Thorin and added, "I have a history of losing fine gifts. No, a simple bow suits me." This had struck Thorin as inexplicably foolish. And, judging by Bard's forlorn expression, was not what he desired either.

In battle, a warrior's life depended on the quality of his arms as much as on the strength of his sinews, the courage of his heart, and for this reason, Dwarves traditionally forged personal weapons, matched in every way to their owners, under the critical eye of a mastersmith. Also coveted were heirlooms that had faced the trial of combat and proved their mettle; the Elves had returned to the Company their confiscated belongings, among which was an ax Thorin knew Glóin intended to bestow upon Gimli. Whether the honor of receiving a weapon that had hewn trolls, goblins, and giant spiders across the breadth of Eriador, from under the Misty Mountains to the depths of Mirkwood would mollify Gimli's resentment at being barred from the victorious quest? That remained to be seen, but Glóin was hopeful.

Grunting in dissatisfied annoyance, Thorin was about to press the issue, maybe as a diplomatic overture Bard couldn't refuse, when the man cut him off, asking, "Perhaps you could tell me what these are?" He gestured at a table laid with oddities from Rhûn and farther abroad that Thrór had collected, courtesy of foreign emissaries and traders eager to win the King Under the Mountain's favor.

One of the later additions—a thin, edged throwing ring of intricately etched gold and dark steel—had landed him and Dwalin in the healing wing to the combined wrath of Óin, Fundin, and Thráin. The concept of spinning the handleless ring off a finger or two was not hard to grasp, but the execution had involved more ducking than aiming and too many fingers sliced for their fathers' comfort. Thorin allowed himself an inward chuckle at the memory, before glaring at Bard. Who glared back, arms crossed and utterly unapologetic about his transparent attempt to forestall more questions.

Taking several deep breaths, Thorin reined in his temper to a voice that sounded rather like Balin's. _It would not do to fly into a rage over so petty a slight._ He hardly understood himself why Bard's stubborn resistance to his every boon irked him so. Did the man not know how to accept a kindness, unless it was on behalf of his people? Or was it Thorin who he rejected, even if he could not do the same to the King Under the Mountain?

 _I shall wait and try again_ , he decided. There must be something Bard could want of him that was not for others. And then he would finally be free of this... _This debt_ , thought Thorin. Relief had shown briefly on Bard's face when Thorin walked to the table, picking up a pair of fishhook-shaped blades. He swung them and latched the ends together with a _snick_ , telling Bard the tale of two travelers, master and apprentice, who had entertained his grandfather's court with an acrobatic fighting style from some far country on the shores of the eastern sea. It was another happy memory and for a few hours, as he recalled for Bard the origins of these outlandish weapons, Thorin was untroubled by shades of the past or future.

So began a new nightly routine. Thorin would open his eyes to darkness and silence, hours before dawn, dress with practiced movements, and find Bard in the treasury. He wondered if the man was always awake at such times, sleeping during the day. Though he supposed wryly that he was not one to chastise Bard for _his_ nocturnal wanderings.

Their meetings grew more comfortable, as Bard came to expect him, yet happened in a world apart. A secret between the two of them that neither acknowledged in the light of day. Frankly, Thorin shuddered to imagine what the Company would say of this; Bofur would probably make an unfortunate comparison to lovers' trysts. Yes, better that nobody else was privy to these dealings of his and Bard's. It was not as if they discussed anything of consequence, after all.

Bard had a curious mind and many questions, upon realizing that Thorin would answer them. While this surprised Thorin, contrary as it was to his impression of Bard as a guarded man whose interests were strictly practical and focused on his family's well-being, it was a good trait in a king. The second night, Bard was studying the sorted tableware, squinting at his distorted reflection in a large silver platter, when Thorin arrived.

"What's the use of so many fancy dishes?" he said, tone plaintive. Thorin had let out a sharp bark of laughter, Bard eyeing him strangely. Fíli had actually demanded the very same explanation of Dís, etiquette the only lessons he had little patience for; Thorin himself had once asked a busy Thráin, who'd answered, distracted, "Your mother enjoys the envy of her guests," in his wife's hearing and was subsequently banished to the settee in the sitting room for a week.

"It is..." Plates in silver and gold, stacked high on the workbenches. Next to them, bowls and goblets of various sizes studded with gems and, on the ground at the foot of one table, a massive soup tureen, embossed with ram and boar heads, that could probably serve as a Hobbit's bath. Even the cutlery shone golden, handles and the flats of the knives engraved. "...an extravagance." Bard snorted. A corner of Thorin's mouth had twitched upwards at the inelegant noise. "Most of this was for formal occasions—banquets with hundreds of guests, state receptions—or simply decoration," Thorin added mildly.

He felt it prudent not to mention that the royal family and many nobles regularly dined upon fine china accented in gold, so as not to offend Bard's frugal sensibilities further. The man was frowning at the full place settings spread on another table, part of a painstakingly reassembled collection of at least three hundred pieces undergoing a final check before storage. He cleared his throat, rubbing at the back of his neck with one hand, then said to Thorin, "Do you... Could you teach me?" There was something shy in his gaze.

Seeing Thorin's blank look, however, Bard shifted nervously, glancing away to trace a slow finger along the filigreed rim of a plate. "I... I was born to wood and clay. Cheap tin and glass. Haven't owned more than a dozen dishes since—" He stopped abruptly. It was a long moment before Bard continued, voice thick. "I would not shame my house or my people now that"—he swallowed, struggling with the words—"now that such riches are mine. Not in _any_ way." This last was low and fierce, certain, while Bard's claim of his rightful wealth was not.

Thorin had raised an eyebrow. Bard sounded as if learning table decorum was as grim an endeavor as preparing for war. _Perhaps it is_ , he thought carefully, considering for the first time that, for all Bard's boldness, almost insolence, he had no experience of court life.

As Thorin's tutors, Thráin, and Balin had repeatedly instructed him, kingdoms were forged not only to the hard ring of gold and steel but by the softer wiles of diplomacy, which flattered and enticed as much as bargained and threatened. He'd just never had the temperament to be _aggressively_ sociable, like Balin and Dís could be, charming their companions with their impeccable manners before the appetizers were finished. But looking at Bard, who was growing more wary as his silence lengthened, Thorin was sure he could be of aid in this. The Dwarves of Erebor had often hosted the Men of Dale and vice versa when Thrór still valued the goodwill of his allies.

Hundreds of candles would burn in great chandeliers throughout his grandfather's hall as Men and Dwarves feasted and danced into the winter night, the kitchens serving up course after course on some of these very plates as the wine flowed freely and musicians of both races played the sprightly tunes that didn't call for partners of like height. Disgracefully little work would get done the next day, Thorin remembered with a fond smile, and a season later, Girion, as his father had before him, would extend an invitation to a fair in Dale, the whole year thus marked by celebration and the renewal of ties.

He shook his head; Bard was staring at him strangely again. The man's expression had then turned startled at hearing Thorin say, "Let us begin with what's in each place setting." Naming the different forks, Thorin was reminded of the harried Dwarf, master of protocol, who'd taught him, Dwalin, and Glóin. Bard, fortunately, proved a more apt student without the aggravations of cousins, and they passed a couple nights revisiting the festival days of Erebor and Dale. _An old tradition that may yet be revived_ , thought Thorin, at the intrigued spark in Bard's eyes. He would like that.

The fourth night, they spoke of the Mountain's metal and mineral wealth. Bard had found the trays where gems were being sifted by type and quality. He'd been astounded by the variety of stones: rubies red as blood and citrine topaz, emeralds, sapphires, and amethyst; banded onyx and cat's eyes, iridescent opals, milky green jade and pearls of every shade; glittering diamonds by the handful. His voice was a whisper, hoarse with stunned awe, as he asked, "Do all these come from here?"

Picking up a perfectly round pearl, Thorin rolled it between his fingers, admiring its rosy gleam and hesitating. _Trust the man to hit upon that._ He shot a disgruntled look at Bard, who had eyes only for the fiery play of colors across a large blue-green opal. _His aim is uncanny with more than arrows._ Sighing, Thorin admitted, "No. Though the Mountain is rich in gold and to a lesser extent, silver, no gems but diamonds were mined here and that in limited amounts." It was inevitable that Bard would learn of this. "Much of the rest came to Erebor through Dale."

Bard seemed thoughtful. At last, he said, slowly, as if testing the soundness of his words, "I had wondered that my ancestor paid you in your own goods, but the necklace was not wrought by Dwarves?" Thorin nodded. Lord Girion's emeralds had been one of the richest commissions in Erebor's recent history: five hundred of the purest stones from Far Harad, set in silver and platinum by the guild jewelers of Minas Tirith, whose skill was artful even in the estimation of the Dwarves.

He knew from Balin that Bard had inquired after the necklace as the first shipment of gold to Laketown was being readied—out of curiosity, apparently, about a family legend—and been surprised to receive it back. For the splendid coat of mail for Girion's eldest son had never been completed, the Mountain's supply of _mithril_ always in high demand, before the coming of the dragon. And son had died with father in Smaug's attack, leading the city's defenders, while his mother fled down the River Running with his younger brother. Thorin wondered what Bard had done with the necklace.

"Could you tell me of these gems?" Bard had said. "Where they come from? Their worth?" There was an anxious note in Bard's questions. Thorin eyed the man and refrained from sharing his suspicions that hopeful traders would begin converging on Dale in the spring, drawn from the ends of the world by rumors of gold and a king new come to his crown. Bard would discover that soon enough for himself. _And will need his wits about him._

Finally, on the fifth night, Thorin lost his patience halfway through a description of Erebor's steam-driven coin presses that Bard had trouble following and said, "Do you not tire of looking upon gold?" Bard stiffened at his tone, the wariness that had gradually worn away as they met over and again returning like a bowstring snapping back into place. Thorin had but a moment to rue his temper.

"Gold may be a common sight to you," said Bard, hand clenched into a fist around the coin he held, "but not all of us have been so fortunate, Oakenshield." Thorin had to show his back to the man, stung, before he undid their accord entirely. He had not felt so very fortunate when leading his homeless and starving people, selling what few possessions they'd saved from the dragon for paltry coin so that their children, at least, would not go wanting. While it was true the Dwarves of Erebor had grown accustomed to wealth when the Lonely Mountain was still theirs, in a way, that made their exile harder to bear, hearts ever yearning for the faded glories of their past and filled with too much pride to be content ironmongering in the towns of Men. So his grandfather had gone to his doom before the gates of Khazad-dûm and him nearly to his.

Behind him, Bard sighed sharply. There was the clinking of a coin dropped to join its fellows, then he said, "I'm sorry. That was unfair of me." His expression was contrite when Thorin turned to him, nodding briefly in acceptance.

"In truth, I know not where else to go," Bard confessed. He laughed weakly. "Your map of the Mountain's rooms was hardly needed, for we are all too frightened to venture beyond the entrance hall. Even the young ones, though they enjoy daring each other to try the stairs." _In search of this very treasure_ , thought Thorin, Bard catching his eye with an amused glint in his own.

"What I meant is that there is more to Erebor than gold." Perhaps he didn't have to explain himself, but Thorin's mind rested the easier for it. Bard's gaze cleared, lit once more by curiosity. _He does not seem so grim at such times_ , Thorin mused, and fast on the heels of this came the realization that he wanted Bard to see Erebor's wonders, to hear of Erebor's storied history.

So many of the latest chapters in those annals had been marred by strife and death that he'd forgotten the years of plenty, when king and kingdom both were strong, with the friendship of Elves and Men. Now, as he recounted them for Bard, the details of happier days were blooming into life with color to shame a meadow of wildflowers in spring, vivid as they had not been since he sat by the fire in the home Dís built with her husband, Víli, telling a wide-eyed Fíli and Kíli similar tales. "I could show you some of the Mountain's other views, if you wish," he offered, aiming for casual but missing the mark, by Bard's stare.

Thorin refused to flush under that close scrutiny, spine rigid. Enough visiting dignitaries had likewise been guided through Erebor's halls—not by the King Under the Mountain himself, granted, nor in the dead of night without an escort—that Thorin did not think his suggestion so strange. He cleared his throat, clasping his hands together at his back, and looked down to nudge a goblet to one side with the toe of his boot. Just as he was about to retract his words as an empty fancy, Bard said slowly, "What do you propose?" Thorin's head snapped up, but he couldn't read Bard's face, in profile and partly hidden by his hair.

It was an odd business, trying to schedule their sleeplessness; neither of them was willing to brave the day with this. Bard admitted, teeth gritted, that he was usually out of bed half an hour before Thorin, once he was sure his children would not wake at his absence. Nodding and silently wondering again what haunted Bard so, Thorin said, "Would you consent to wait in the dining hall for me? Only for the half hour, and if we fail to meet there, I'll come to you here."

After a moment's hesitation, Bard agreed. He still acted like a man worried, however, biting his lip in a way reminiscent of his son, so Thorin added, "The night watch keeps a pot of mulled wine warm on a side hearth in the kitchens. Help yourself to some, though if anyone asks, you didn't hear of it from me." It was an unspoken understanding that the lords and captains would feign ignorance about such minor liberties, despite the fact that most of them had themselves been guardsmen. A small, startled smile curved Bard's mouth. Thorin went to breakfast after they parted at the entrance to the guest wing feeling lightened and already planning which sights to show Bard.

Over the next few weeks, they roamed Erebor together. Their first destination was the grand amphitheater, which in a stroke of good timing was being surveyed.

While one of the most spectacular halls in the Mountain, the large fan-shaped room, stage at the apex, was best seen when the great chandelier of crystal and gold was lit, the walls and high ceiling gleaming with golden scrollwork and enameled mosaics of precious stones in every color. Dwarven aesthetics tended towards geometric lines, strong and angular, but the amphitheater was a departure of sorts; prominent in its design were polygons of so many sides that they appeared as circles from afar, set one within another in delicate, abstract patterns conceived by a dwarrow who was as eccentric as he was brilliant. The result was unique and utterly stunning.

Bard's reaction did not disappoint when Thorin led him in after pouring enough lamp oil, left by the work crews, into the runnels of the chandelier to burn brightly for a couple hours. The man's bemusement at being commanded to wait alone in the dark with one of their candles while Thorin rushed off to make preparations was swept away by his awe upon entering the amphitheater in all its shining glory. He'd cursed, a heartfelt oath that tripped from his tongue unintended, and Thorin had smirked.

Slowly and in appreciative silence, Bard walked the perimeter of the room, Thorin at his side. Finally, fingers tracing a shard of pearly opal that bore a passing resemblance to a leaf on a tree—if trees were towering columns of butterflies, their branches outstretched wings and their leaves feathers haloed in light—he swallowed hard and said, "I did not know that Dwarves honored the arts so."

Thorin grunted. He was well aware that Dwarves were commonly held to be uncultured brutes, at worst, who at best simply had no love for things that were not dug out of the ground, aside from fighting and drink. But Dwarves loved _craft_ above all, and exquisitely wrought notes of music were no exception, though they were more mutable than stone and metal. Music was a vital part of a young Dwarf's education for other reasons—

_"It teaches rhythm and, in ensemble, coordination," he told Bard, "skills that are needed at the forge." It was not unusual for smiths to sing as they shaped gold and steel hot from the fires, the ring of their hammers a counterpoint to the melody. "All Dwarves learn an instrument, though not all continue the practice past their majority."_

_Bard eyed him with interest. "And you, Oakenshield? What instrument do you play?" Thorin faltered in his steps, suddenly and inexplicably shy._ What did you expect, you fool? _he berated himself. It was not as if it were any secret._

_"The harp," he said stiffly, trying not to sound defensive. It was a rarer choice among the nobility, who generally preferred string instruments to the wind, brass, and percussion of lower ranks, but his mother had loved so the harp's sweet and mellow tones._

_"It suits you," was Bard's judgment, his brow furrowed, and Thorin exhaled quietly. The memory of his mother's proud eyes as he recited for her the newest piece he'd learned curling warm in his chest, he asked Bard, "What of you?" Bard's reply was a rueful chuckle._

_"Never had the time," he said, shaking his head. "Or the temperament." Somehow, Thorin doubted that; the man could not have mastered the bow without patience and dedication. "My wife—" He stopped abruptly. It was long moment before Bard continued. "My wife... She played the clavichord."_

_That surprised Thorin, for such instruments, an invention of the Gondorian court, were costly and difficult to procure so far north. Even Erebor had only boasted a few, reserved for their most talented composers and instructors. Bard seemed embarrassed under Thorin's gaze, explaining, "I wed above my station," self-deprecating but not without humor._

_"She... used to tell me I could sing the thrushes from the trees," said Bard softly after another lengthy pause, eyes distant. The timbre of Bard's voice, rich with a faint quaver, caught Thorin; all the edges were rounded by remembered joy and an old sadness too deep for words. "I always jested that love had made her deaf as well as blind." And Thorin wondered._

—that they discussed on the companionable stroll back to the guest wing, neither in any hurry. The chandelier had been burning dimmer by the time they left the amphitheater, casting shadows that brought the mosaics to flickering life. Jeweled birds in wing and fish leaping through rolling waves, the deer hidden in spiraling growths of forest that Bard had delighted at finding—the images stayed with Thorin into the day and the next. Would it be fitting, he thought, to formally commemorate their return to Erebor with an evening of music?

Performances in the grand amphitheater were _occasions_ , attended by everyone who could reserve a seat. All would dress in their splendid best for the gatherings before the show and during intermission, which Thrór and later Thráin often used to mingle and converse freely with their subjects, hearing news of births, marriages, and deaths, trade and craft, as well as rumors and, inevitably, talk of politics. Even in his sickness, Thrór had exercised his royal prerogative as leading patron of the arts to arrange the program.

The final curtain before Smaug came fell on the heroic saga of Azaghâl, Lord of Gabilgathol, and his defeat of Glaurung, Father of Dragons. His grandfather had been in a querulous mood for some days since Lord Girion sent word of sightings in the Withered Heath of a great flying beast, convinced the Elvenking had a hand in alarming the Men, but he'd relished the slaying of Glaurung, applauding loudly after the cleverly constructed wooden puppet, animated by three Dwarves from within and gilded in golden scales, retreated offstage, mortally wounded by Azaghâl's dying blow. Thrór watched avidly, eyes gleaming, as Azaghâl was borne up by his men, who marched from the field to a paean that was widely esteemed as one of the finest ever scored.

Grimacing, Thorin could only speculate now who Thrór's mind had seen playing Azaghâl's role or if, in his blind arrogance, he truly believed Erebor safe from the dragons that had plagued the Grey Mountains and finally driven them from there. He had not balked at revising history to suit him, after all; while relations then between them and the Elves were strained, the ancient Dwarves of the Blue Mountains had not failed to hear of Glaurung's reappearance or his death at the hands of a Man. _A tale told again, with a change of actors._

In the end, Thorin reluctantly set the reopening of the grand amphitheater aside as a matter he needed Dís's counsel on. His sister had a far more comprehensive knowledge of concert pieces than he and would be able to select a suitable program, he did not doubt, that could both be staged with the performers available and was politic, striking the right tone with the audience.

Which, Thorin hoped, would include Bard and his family as special guests of the king. The sound of a full orchestra in the amphitheater, playing to a rapt crowd, was an altogether different experience from the sight of the empty, if impressive, room. Sections of the walls were paneled in wood, the floor carpeted, and the seats upholstered in rich red velvet to enhance the acoustics. Bard could not have been afforded many opportunities to attend such entertainments and would enjoy it, surely. He frowned. Though the fabrics were in want of a thorough cleaning, maybe replacement. _In the spring_ , he promised himself.

Encouraged by the success of their first outing, Thorin next showed Bard the one crop that was cultivated under the Mountain. It'd been difficult to explain that it was not grown for food or fodder or, indeed, any sort of consumption, as even the Shire's famed pipeweed was—

 _"Mushrooms?" Bard looked nonplussed, then with a sly glance at Thorin, added, "One might mistake you Dwarves for Hobbits." Thorin snorted. No people could covet mushrooms as Bilbo's did. On the road to Rivendell, he and Bombur had shared every conceivable mushroom recipe, until Thorin was ready to bake_ them _stuffed with sausage, cheese, and onions._

_"They are not for eating," Thorin said firmly. "Have you not marked the green lights that shine only in the dark?" He pointed at a clay pot the size of a Man's head, top covered with a latticed dome, set on a high, recessed shelf cut into the wall for that purpose._

_Bard studied the pot, gone dim in the light of their candles, noting the others like it spaced at regular intervals up and down the hall they walked. "I thought perhaps they were some glowing ore," he said with an easy shrug._

_"Such ores do exist, aye," conceded Thorin, "but they do not live and make a light of their own." Phosphorescent green painted the stone with decorative emblems, each lattice different. "Foxfire, we call it."_

_"Does it ever... burn out?" Scratching his chin absently, Bard tested the idea of poisonous mushrooms that were not bound for the plate or an apothecary yet were prized enough to farm in quantity. A source of light that did not smoke as did wood and coal, however, was as valuable to the Dwarves as food and medicines._

_Thorin nodded. "They must be replanted in richer soil by rotation lest they die." In the decades since Smaug took the Mountain as his lair, all the foxfire pots had guttered out, but the fields still grew in their damp hall, though deprived of compost from Erebor's kitchens and privies._

_"Mushrooms," Bard repeated, shaking his head in disbelief. "Glowing mushrooms..." His smile was wondering and young in that way which had at last stopped startling Thorin. " 'Tis passing strange." Thorin hid a smile behind his hand._

—until Bard stood gaping on a ledge over a floor sprouting in mushrooms, the vast hall bathed in an eerie green light that was steadier than that cast by any flame. As they descended the stairs, to Thorin's amused forbearance, Bard paused frequently to just stare. While at first impression, foxfire burned everywhere, the mushrooms were actually planted in rows; open aisles ran between the wide, shallow beds, which were stacked three high past Bard's waist. Deep troughs lined the walls for water and compost, tools hanging above them.

"Is there not a spot in this whole mountain that's unadorned?" asked Bard with a huff, upon noticing the thin veins of silver branching across the floor. The beds themselves were supported by carven columns and arrayed in geometric shapes that drew the eye to the silver, glimmering in reflected green.

Thorin merely raised an eyebrow, arms crossed. He thought the answer to that rather obvious. Bard huffed again, before turning to the mushrooms, tentatively poking at a large one with his finger. When he raised the finger for inspection, rubbing at the skin with his thumb as if expecting it to begin glowing, too, Thorin had to cough or risk laughing at the man. After this, Thorin felt it safer to survey the beds for brightness, which would decide what clusters were harvested for the pots, Bard eyeing his back suspiciously.

Unkind though it probably was, Thorin found a certain pleasure in nettling Bard. He did not believe it to be the ill will he'd once borne towards the man; that had, like other far older grudges, been washed away by blood. Yet neither could he say exactly why he was gripped by an urge to constantly try Bard's dour self-possession. It vexed him to see Bard sitting alone at a table in the darkened dining hall he never visited at mealtimes, mind a thousand leagues removed from his body as he nursed a cup of mulled wine and waited for Thorin.

Was Bard remembering his daughter or brooding on the dragon? The horrors of the battle or the years of toil ahead in Dale? Part of Thorin knew there was wisdom in leaving Bard be—not all sorrows and cares wanted to be lifted; this he well understood—but now that he'd seen Erebor resplendent through Bard's eyes, marvels around every corner unsullied by memories of its fall, he could not help prodding the man into shows of emotion, whether interest or exasperation. The Bard who groused irritably at being led up endless flights of stairs—

_"How is it," muttered Bard, the thread of a whine in his voice, "that anyone had the energy to work after climbing so many stairs?" He slumped heavily against the wall on the landing, wiping at the sweat beaded on his brow with the back of one hand._

_Perched several steps above, Thorin said, "We Dwarves are hardier than you Men," though it came out a little short of breath. He did not like to admit it, but his stamina was not fully recovered, and he was as glad for this rest as Bard. Whose face scrunched comically, torn between skepticism and pique at Thorin's glib reply._

Do not be surprised, when you ask an impudent question, to receive an answer in kind, _thought Thorin, with some glee. "And I suppose wood and oil, coal,_ gold _—all was carried from the Mountain's foot to its peak upon your backs?" Bard scowled, daring him to claim Dwarves needed no mechanical aid to move supplies by the ton._

_He pretended confusion at Bard's disgruntled gibe, asking innocently, "Is there another way to do it?" Bard squinted at him, not fooled in the slightest. With a grunt, he pushed off the wall and stretched his legs, before reaching his arms over his head, back arching catlike._

_There were, in fact, freight lifts that stopped at all levels of the Mountain and were as often packed with Dwarves as with loads of wood, oil, coal, and gold. There was a reason, too, why residential quarters were situated above the mines and forges, despite how it complicated ventilation, and the treasury below everything else save the catacombs._

_But Bard didn't have to hear of that. "Come," said Thorin, suddenly impatient. "The night is waning as you dawdle." He beckoned the man to follow and turned determinedly to scale the stairs ascending into the gloom._

_A sigh behind him, then footsteps. "Can you at least tell me where we are headed?" Bard sounded plaintive; Thorin smiled. He would forget his complaints soon enough, a moment Thorin looked forward to._

—and chuckled at the almost playful touches hidden in the Mountain's carvings was one whom Thorin could, perhaps, come to call friend. It would serve to bind Erebor and Dale closer, Thorin reasoned, and foster by example amity between their peoples: a sign that past grievances were forgiven, if not forgotten. But after Balin, concerned, mentioned that he'd been distracted for days, asking why without asking, Thorin was forced to consider that his motives in wandering Erebor with Bard were not so impersonal as securing their alliance. In council and at meals, a part of his mind riffled through his memories for their destination the next night and the next, choosing and discarding as he thought Bard might like.

 _Am I so lonely?_ It was not as if he lacked for company and good company, in the stout Dwarves who called him their king and whose work in restoring their home, with the cheer in their hearts as much as by the craft of their hands, made him so, so very proud. While they'd become as comfortable as could be hoped meeting and speaking to one another, Bard was still a hard man to know, caution sitting under his skin like a battered suit of armor he'd worn in so many battles he no longer felt its weight. At times, it set Thorin on edge.

There were no dragons here that must be slain, he wanted to rail. No orcs and goblins, nor even a conniving Master, jealous of your wealth and renown. Bard should count himself fortunate that his greatest foe was not the flaws in his own character. As swiftly as it came, however, Thorin's ire at Bard would pass. For who, hurt once, would not try to deflect the next blow?

 _It is a cruel jest to be so discontent with what men have spent their lives seeking._ He would abdicate his crown without hesitation, accept exile or death, if only Fíli and Kíli could take his place, and he knew Bard had never desired more than for his children to be happy for the rest of their many days. Did Bard, too, feel a failure and a fraud? Given how he flinched at his title, Thorin suspected so.

Such words would not be received well, of course, so Thorin did not say them, having learned something from his mistakes. What harm was there, after all, in laying aside worries and obligations for a few hours every couple nights? He thought his ghosts would allow him this, just until the Men departed for Dale in the spring, and Bard's daughter—Sigrid, Thorin reminded himself—had not seemed one to begrudge her father any joy. They continued to roam Erebor together, walking as if in a pleasant dream and careful to not wound each other unto waking.

He showed Bard the lake tucked beneath the Mountain's peak. Placid and black as the night sky, the waters mirrored the seven sparkling white lights hung from the ceiling in tribute to Durin. At Bard's insistence, they rowed out in the skiff used to sound the lake's depth at its center; Thorin was certain Bard suggested it to discomfit him and sat with arms folded over his chest, face impassive, as Bard took them on a relaxed loop around the lake with long, practiced strokes.

Dwarves did not fear crossing deep waters, per se, but neither did they enjoy it. Some could not swim, including several members of the Company, and they were often so laden with weapons, provisions, and other accoutrements when traveling that they sank under the weight. Though, Thorin remembered with a wry smile he turned on the lake, he could at least trust Bard not to drown him this time.

When finally Bard had rowed his fill, Thorin told him of how the lake was created—

_"Thráin, first of his name and founder of the Kingdom Under the Mountain, bade his folk to harness the waters that ran then in nameless little streams down the slopes to drive the great wheels in the forges," Thorin said, voice echoing above the lapping of ripples against the far walls and sides of their boat. "And so was born the Running River."_

_"I'd always heard that the river sprang from the rock at the Mountain's base," mused Bard, frowning. He pulled easily on the oars, rhythm unbroken as he unerringly steered the skiff towards the stairs that descended into the lake. "Was that wrong?"_

_"No, but it is not the full tale." Thorin stared at the sweep of the oars, usually more paddles, since Dwarves hadn't the reach of a tall, lean Man. "_ A _river flowed from the Mountain into Long Lake before the Dwarves came, but it was not the waterway it is now." Bard hummed, and Thorin thought he might like to see the spring, too. It was surprising after its own fashion._

—as their boat cut smoothly through the water back to anchor, trailed by waves capped in candlelight and the flickering white sheen of Durin's crown of stars.

He showed Bard the library, so extensive it occupied them for two nights. The map room was one of the few common halls to boast windows: narrow and angled as the Mountain's sides were, stretching from ceiling to floor. Upon the latter, in the central space enclosed by shelves and reading tables, was a map of the known world formed of inlaid marble and granite in many colors. Silver ran the rivers and lakes, the seas etched with breakers, and gold touched the peaks of the mountains like the sunrise.

Bard found the lands to the east of particular interest, unfamiliar as they were to him. While south of the Sea of Rhûn was a country as strange to Dwarves, from the Red Mountains in the far north to the Yellow Mountains that led to the eastern sea, their kin had traveled. Contact with the Ironfists and Stiffbeards, the Blacklocks and Stonefoots was sporadic at best, but maps were always among the wares traded, along with rumors. Dáin, for one, had been better informed than most; Lady Eir was of the Stiffbeards and met her husband at Azanulbizar, when last the seven clans had joined their strength.

So engrossed was Bard in his study of the map that he failed to notice Thorin clearing his throat, at first politely, then more forcibly. In the end, Thorin moved to block the man's path as he slowly walked the length of Rhûn. The half startled, half sheepish expression on Bard's face when he looked up from Thorin's tapping foot to his pointedly arched eyebrow was a new one.

They did eventually see the rest of the library. As Bard browsed the shelves, each rising to the ceiling in levels lined with balconies, staircases, and sliding ladders—

_"Is this Dwarvish?" asked Bard. He flipped another page in a tome, resting open on a lectern, made entirely out of beaten gold plates and bound with silver rings. It was one of dozens of its like shelved on this level alone; the note of incredulity had yet to leave Bard's voice._

_Thorin glanced over and said, "Aye, though it is a secret language." Bard acted like a boy caught stealing sweets, stepping hastily back from the lectern and one hand raking through his hair. "We do not teach it to outsiders. You may still look upon it, of course," Thorin added after a suitable pause, smirking._

_He almost laughed at the glare Bard shot his way; if it were not so undignified, Thorin thought Bard would've stuck out his tongue at him, as the children of Laketown did in their games. Watching Bard lightly trace the engraved runes reminded Thorin, oddly, of Elrond, however, and that exceptions had been made in the past._

—Thorin answered his questions and eyed the statues scattered throughout the library of Dwarves holding not axes or hammers but scales and sextants, chisels and quills.

He showed Bard the gas lights in the old quarter, once the metal pipes that carried the gas from a chamber discovered deeper beneath the Mountain than even the catacombs had been deemed sound—

_"They're... blue," Bard whispered. Each light was trapped in a globe of gold and glass fed by piping in the walls. The characteristic blue flames spiraled like a string of falling stars down into the abandoned mine, converted for shops and markets after the gold was played out. It was a striking sight and, Thorin knew, one that had cost his forefathers in blood as well as sweat to build._

—and the spring from which the River Running flowed—

_"Do not touch the water," Thorin warned. "It is as hot as if it'd been set in a kettle to boil." Bard, crouched beside one of the steaming pools in the rock, nodded but continued to peer at it curiously. "Legend tells that the spring is heated by Mahal's own forge under the world," he said, debating whether to invite Bard to bathe in the lower, cooler pools. Men could be strangely prudish at times._

—until it became so routine to meet Bard at night it was a shock to see him in council during the day.

A week into the new year, celebrated in solemn fashion with an evening of hymns, Bard had finally shown his face at supper. Granted, towards the end and only to schedule an audience with Thorin to begin talks on the reconstruction of Dale. He did not stay to eat, greeting some of the Men before leaving for his rooms again, steps hurried and his son at his heels with a tray of food. Thorin stared after him until Balin coughed to get his attention.

"That one's not too fond of company, is he?" said Bofur, to grumbling agreement from the others around the table. _He does not object to mine_ , Thorin thought absurdly, then, shaking his head, sent word for Master Dofur to attend the council tomorrow afternoon. Bard had plans of Dale he wanted them to review, and Dofur was a skilled draftsman known to him.

Bard's plans were more sketches and not any kind done by surveyors, though they'd been drawn on the oversized sheets of thick parchment used by the Mountain's architects and engineers, marked in one corner with Erebor's official seal next to an empty bracket for the maker's personal stamp and signature. "Courtesy of Lord Nori," Bard explained at Thorin's questioning look. He hung by its strap on the back of his chair the tall, sturdy leather tube, embossed with the same seal, that he'd stored the plans in. "Gilvagor drew these for me after the battle." His mouth twisted into a rather sour expression. "He was my Elven guard, assigned to me by King Thranduil, and had some talent in art. I do not know if they will serve as guides for your builders."

Thorin exchanged a tolerant glance with Dofur, who was thumbing through the loose sheets, stopping only to stroke his beard. _Elves!_ The vines crawling up the walls were meticulously detailed, the path of every straggling branch traced, and in one drawing was a thrush perched upon a cracked windowsill, so lifelike Thorin imagined it would cock its head and take wing at any moment.

Still, the shape of the stone was apparent and some sense of the wear, in the Elf's shaded textures. There were multiple views of Dale's streets and squares, as well as high angle perspectives of the city quarters that this Gilvagor must have climbed the Mountain's arms to draw, his long Elven eyesight put to good use.

 _You have not been idle_ , thought Thorin, amused to learn that what he'd previously believed to be restful strolls about Dale, a king acquainting himself with his kingdom, were in fact Bard working, very much against his healer's commands. Thorin hoped, for this Elf's sake, that he at least had the self-preservation to forbid Bard from scaling too many heights in their surveys; Thranduil's wrath was not a thing to be courted lightly.

Bard rubbed his chin with one hand, the other searching the papers spread across the table for an annotated map of the whole city he pulled out from the pile with a pleased noise. Anxiously, he asked, "What do you think, Master Dofur?"

Dofur hummed contemplatively, then nodded. "These will serve. I'll have to draft properly configured prints for the stonemasons to work from"—he tapped the simple measurements jotted in a bold hand along the margins of the drawings—"but I expect no more than a few hours' surveying on site will be needed, to test the foundations and match the existing rock, before construction can begin, weather allowing." Bard sighed to hear this, at last sitting heavily in his chair. "With your permission, sire?" Man and Dwarf both turned to him.

"Granted," said Thorin. "To our allies, the Men of Dale, Erebor shall task four shifts of fifty Dwarves each for the rebuilding of their city, the force to increase by another hundred during the summer months." Bard's eyes widened, and even Dofur seemed a trifle startled at the numbers, before grunting in approval. Balin, of course, keeping the record of this council, was unsurprised; he and Thorin had discussed the matter in advance. With the aid the Men had freely given this winter and, more than that, the indomitable spirit they'd shown, as resilient as any Dwarf's, Erebor's current residents would be glad to help in Dale, and Thorin's kin from the Blue Mountains would not refuse him.

"That..." Bard swallowed. "That is generous beyond my expectations, King Thorin, but do you not need most of your hands to labor in the Mountain?" Out of respect, Thorin pretended consideration; in truth, his mind was set. While, yes, much remained to be done—the mess in the foundries and Gallery of Kings, for one, had yet to be put to rights—the greater part of it was inspection and cleaning, sorting the countless possessions discarded as their owners fled the dragon. Thorin gripped the armrests of his chair hard. How fortunate, he reflected bitterly, that Smaug had been too lazy or too greedy to rise often from his bed of gold.

"Work on the Mountain's halls will proceed apace with our kin from the Iron Hills and Blue Mountains coming in the spring." Thorin forestalled Bard's protests with a raised hand. "You forget, too, Lord Bard"—he frowned slightly when Bard flinched—"that unlike Dale, Erebor is not open to the elements. Fair weather or ill, we can labor, and we shall have all of the winter to devote our efforts to the Mountain alone." Bard looked down at the map of Dale, the city framed by his hands, brow furrowed. _Must you be so stubborn?_ Thorin thought. "I'll not have it said that the Dwarves of Erebor let their friends live without sound roofs over their heads to stay the rain and strong walls to shield them from the bite of the wind. No, do not seek to move me from this, for you shall fail."

Halfway through his speech, Thorin began to feel a little... embarrassed. A feeling not lessened by the way Bard stared at him and Balin, too; Master Dofur, at least, was politely ignoring his liege's sudden stream of impassioned words. But Thorin meant what he said—every single word—and had vowed to himself near a month ago that he would care for Bard's people until they were more prosperous than before Smaug destroyed their home, so he gritted his teeth and finished speaking. A long pause followed, then Bard said, with a small, wry smile, "You make a persuasive case, my lord. I concede and gratefully so, on behalf of Dale."

Thorin nodded, ducking his head to clear his throat and hide behind a fist the smile tugging at the corners of his own mouth. "Now," he said, tone businesslike, "I suggest that we focus our energies on repairing one sector of the city, the least damaged perhaps, large enough to comfortably house your people and any others—I'd guess several hundred at most—who might join you from Laketown or farther abroad in the coming months." Bard arched an eyebrow at that, skeptical, but Thorin was confident in the draw of Bard's leadership over the Master's and of his fame as a dragonslayer, with wealth exceedingly great.

At any rate, the man did not object, simply pushing the map forward for Thorin and Dofur to study. He pointed to the part of Dale sheltered against the Mountain's southern spur, which had escaped more of the devastation wrought by dragon and battle than any other by virtue of not being on the direct line of attack from the valley's entrance to Erebor's gates.

The next couple hours were productive and, by the end, Dofur had a tentative schedule of buildings for the work crews to restore, with former inns and boarding houses given precedence. Thorin was so satisfied with what they'd accomplished that, as their meeting wound down, an invitation for Bard to sup with him was on the tip of his tongue.

Bard did not cooperate, however, saying with a curt shake of his head, "We have yet to discuss the matter of payment." His face was set in hard, grim lines; Thorin sighed inwardly and caught Balin's eye, where he found an irritatingly knowing glint. He stifled the urge to grimace. Balin had been right, as usual.

 _He_ had hoped to defer this topic until some estimate of the labor and material required could be made. And, he admitted, in the interest of beginning his official relations with Bard as Lord of Dale on a friendlier note than how he'd treated with Bard, a Man of Laketown. Balin had bluntly told him that he was a fool to think Bard would delay chiseling into stone the specifics of their deal, too wary and too proud, as well, to accept charity with no promise of recompense in turn. What's more, as kindly disposed as the Dwarves were towards the Men now, fair trade must be the foundation of the peace between their kingdoms in the future, as it was in the past.

Part of Thorin had realized he hoped in vain. Bard was not one to suffer being indebted for long—in this, they were much alike, though Bard, frustratingly, was not as conscious of what he was owed as he was conscientious of what he owed—but the Men's resources were few, their choices fewer, and Thorin would not beggar them when they were still all but homeless. Seed and feed, stock, iron and oil, cloth. A dispossessed people had an unrelenting need for gold, Thorin knew all too well, without also bearing the cost of rebuilding a city. _Nor do I wish to shame you_ , he added silently, taking in the thin, white press of Bard's lips.

"While none can gainsay you in how you spend your gold, we should not like to receive it back," Thorin finally offered, trying to keep his voice neutral. Bard would not appreciate condescension and pity even less so. "In light of the events that brought us to this day, I'm inclined to waive payment for our services until Dale's fortunes are once again sound. There is no rush to—"

"No." The word cut through his as cleanly as Orcrist through a goblin's neck and with near the same force. "We have the means to pay you this year for this year's work: not in gold, but in food." Bard's eyes, shadowed by anger, bored into his. _So much for not giving offense_ , thought Thorin, holding tight to his own temper. "A portion of our grain harvest, roots and greens, apples," Bard continued, syllables clipped as if they pained him to say. "Was that not the way of old between Dwarves and Men?"

 _You know well that it was._ Dwarves could till the land at great need, but their hands that shaped stone and metal with unsurpassed skill were clumsy in sowing crops and harvesting them, the earth reluctant to yield them this bounty, and they did not have the ease of Men with horses or oxen. In practically every way, the partnership of their races was ideal. Food in exchange for gold and steel. Which the far roaming Men would trade and wield to extend their dominion while the Dwarves remained content in their craft, unassailable in their mountain fastnesses. "Be that as it may," said Thorin, "and as welcome as a return to such an arrangement would be, I could not countenance it if—"

"It is not your place to allow or forbid it," Bard snapped. "King Under the Mountain you are, but we are neither your subjects nor your vassals." Thorin narrowed his eyes, stung. While it was undeniable that the Men were at a disadvantage, dependent as they were on the goodwill of their Elven and Dwarven neighbors, somehow, in the wandering course of their nights together, he'd come to believe that Bard trusted enough in his honor now to rest assured that he would not exploit that weakness. Injured pride— _do you think so little of me?_ —and a weariness his shoulders threatened to slump under warred within his breast.

He had done what he could to show the Men that Dwarves could be generous to their friends, with no talk of debt or bargains, and he'd felt that a strong rapport had been built in the weeks their people lived and worked side by side, any lingering ill feeling from their quarrels before the battle soothed by the care that sprung from familiarity. But, clearly, Bard was unconvinced of their— _his_ —intentions.

"This is all that we would give freely," Bard continued, chin tipping up in challenge even as his throat moved nervously, "and it is worth your labor." And until Dale's once lucrative trade contacts in the south and east were re-established, dealing in silk and spices, precious gems, and other imported luxuries much in demand from Erebor to the Woodland Realm, foodstuffs were also the only commodities Bard _could_ offer. "Do not think that, by refusing, you can"—he paled, seeming almost fey in his determination—"you can force us to stay beholden to you, until you want to take a favor of your choosing."

A strained silence descended. _Where is this... defensiveness coming from?_ Bard had been pleased with their reconstruction proposals. Thorin was sure of it; he recognized the looseness of limb as Bard pointed out the locations of buildings, likely prospects for repair, from when they walked back to the guest wing in the predawn hours, conversation easy between them and the corners of Bard's eyes crinkled in a smile. The pinched expression on Bard's face now, neither the guarded nor angry suspicion that marked their earliest association, made him half a stranger to Thorin again. He could not help scowling, frustrated.

Master Dofur glanced from him to Bard, deft fingers quickly rolling up the drawings of Dale. Rising from his seat, he slipped them back into their holder, the strap of which he then slung over one arm, not a motion wasted. "Sire," he said, with a brisk nod at Thorin, "as I have the plans and know my lords' wishes, should I—"

"Yes. Go." Thorin did not look at the other Dwarf, gaze fixed still on Bard. Who broke their stare to study his hands, clasped tightly together on the table before him. "I expect preliminary drafts of the discussed spring renovations to be ready for approval by Lord Bard and me in a fortnight," Thorin ordered, noting, again, how Bard flinched at being titled. He had fallen out of the habit of addressing Bard so, Bain the one who relayed official messages to his father, and could not be certain, but Bard seemed unusually tense in his reaction, the muscles of his shoulders bunching under his coat.

After Dofur left, bowing and assuring Thorin that he would do as bidden, Thorin sighed slowly and said, "Lord Bard, I would not deprive your people of needed food." Bard's fingers were red with the force of his grip, save for a crescent of white at the tip of each nail as they dug into his flesh. "Additional supplies are due to arrive from both the Iron Hills and Blue Mountains that should see Erebor through the year"—a lean year, Thorin admitted to himself, without as much in the way of fresh ingredients as Bombur would no doubt prefer—"while you cannot say yet whether the Desolation will prove fertile."

It was true that Dale had once been Erebor's cornucopia, rich in grains, fruit and vegetables. Equally true, however, was that none could expect the land to recover its full productivity in a mere season after centuries of lying fallow under the depredations of the dragon. He did not understand why Bard insisted upon this, and his confusion made his tone sharper than he intended. "Look to Dale first, Lord Bard, before you see to the Mountain."

Bard's jaw clenched, though he did not meet Thorin's eyes. "As we do not presume to instruct you in mining," he said, voice low and harsh, "do not presume to instruct us in farming." And the short leash Thorin had kept his temper on snapped. Much as he wanted to reach an accord with Bard—and the disappointment that pierced his chest was a barbed arrow, sinking deeper than he could've guessed—he would not stand to be insulted like this any longer, his every word misconstrued, without an explanation. But Bard gutted his indignation before he could open his mouth and say something regrettable. Which, Thorin thought, was probably for the best.

The soft noise that Bard made, all tension leaving his body in a rush as he curled inwards, was that of a man in breathless misery. As Thorin watched in rising alarm, Bard rubbed a trembling hand over his face and straightened, looking up at a spot on the back of Thorin's chair past his shoulder. There was a brittleness to Bard that Thorin could not remember seeing since that first night the Men spent in Erebor.

"My sincerest apologies, Your Majesty," said Bard, his speech more formal than Thorin had ever heard from him. The careful enunciation, as if Bard feared his tongue might falter, did nothing to allay Thorin's worry; the rounded sounds of Bard's accent had almost disappeared. "Your concerns are not unfounded, but..." He swallowed, briefly biting his lower lip. "When the dragon came, it left our fields and pastures undamaged. While some of our sheep and cattle fled into the woods, with the help of the Elves, we were able to recover most of the animals lost and harvest one last crop of, of squashes, carrots and onions, beets, parsnips..."

He trailed off, voice growing quieter and shakier until he stopped with a shuddering breath. Thorin waited for Bard to continue; the wooden armrests of his chair creaked in his grip. Finally, with a sharp jerk of his head, Bard finished, "Added to the grains to be shipped upriver from Rhûn and aid from the Woodland Realm, there will be food enough to keep us through the spring, when the fields can be replanted, till the summer harvest, and I..." On the table, Bard's fingers twitched, digging into the surface before he spread his hands flat once more, though his expression did not change—blank as wet slate. "The Master of Laketown has granted Dale exclusive rights to work the farms on the upper shores of the lake for the next five years and to fish in those waters for perpetuity."

That surprised Thorin and, in dawning realization, he studied Bard. Who simply looked worn and not at all like a man who'd secured such liberal trade concessions, turning his head to stare blindly at a wall. A pang stabbed through Thorin at Bard's defeated posture. _"Could you teach me?"_ Bard was keenly aware of his inexperience in diplomacy.

 _What was the price asked?_ He must have appeased the Master's lust for gold, Thorin judged after a furious moment's consideration, and was not proud of it. Picking his words with care, he said, "If a greater portion of your share of the treasure is to be escorted to Esgaroth than previously agreed upon, I would have you tell me, so that I may make the necessary arrangements." There was no reproach in his tone.

Balin and Glóin had deemed it prudent for a small contingent of Dwarven warriors to accompany Bard and the first shipment of gold to Laketown, wary of trouble in dividing it among the Men, and Thorin had sustained them, knowing that Bard himself had requested it and thinking to affirm Erebor's support of him, as the Elves had already done. The Men, then, had been the most disarrayed of the allied forces, the Master disgraced by his cowardice but nominally still their leader while Bard ruled in actuality but seemed altogether too ready to relinquish his new authority. For Thorin's comfort or, he suspected, Thranduil's, the Elvenking so unimpressed by the Master he had no qualms stranding the man beside Long Lake to march on the Mountain and take council with Bard alone.

While the distribution of the gold had been fair and peaceable, by the reports of the guards, this separation of Dale from Esgaroth as two sovereign realms was long in the making. Since, in truth, Bard slew Smaug, as the Master fled. Eyeing Bard's profile, the noble cast of brow and nose, Thorin wished again that there was more ambition in Bard's heart. Enough to oust the Master, at least, who was like to prove a thorn in everybody's side in the years to come, and bring Laketown under his crown.

"No," said Bard hoarsely, closing his eyes with a wince. "No new arrangements are needed on the part of Erebor." _But then_ , Thorin thought, _it is that you value simple things_ —food and shelter for his people, protection against war and oppression, a long life and a happy one— _above riches and power which sets you apart, even in the company of kings._ That it was the nature of the man which mattered most was a lesson Bard had yet to grasp, though Thorin could hardly blame him for fearing the corruption of gold and a crown, with the Master as an example, Thorin himself. Strange how little Bard trusted in his own strength and character, when so many others had found him worthy.

"This... boon," Bard continued, words halting, "It cost Dale nothing." Thorin was again surprised, for if not an appeal to the Master's greed... _Does he hate you so much?_ he wondered, the circumstances of Bard's departure from Laketown falling into a different pattern. Bard's face when he turned back to Thorin had blanched to a sickly shade of pale, but his dark eyes burned into Thorin's, defiant, and his voice when he spoke this time was unyielding as diamond. "The Master's price has been paid in full, the bargain struck, and it is not for you to question it."

Hearing Thorin's involuntary grumble at that, Bard softened a bit. "I'm... Thank you, for your concern. But though we are allies, some battles the Men of Dale must fight"— _and win_ , the line of Bard's shoulders suggested—"alone. Not every problem can be solved through the fabled stubbornness of the Dwarves." A shadow of a smile curved Bard's lips.

Thorin still felt it a travesty that the Master had leveraged the welfare of Bard's people to exile him from the place of his birth like a common criminal—and sent him on his way with a beating from the Master's thugs, Thorin remembered; his hands clenched into fists he had to pry open by force of will—but finally he nodded and said, "Very well, Lord Bard. We shall accept a portion of your harvest as payment for our services in rebuilding Dale." Bard breathed a sigh of relief. "Perhaps we could meet during the growing season to finalize the details?" That would give Bard time to assess potential crop yields and Thorin to consult the records of Dale's past tithes; now that he'd agreed to this trade, he planned to offer Bard a more than fair exchange.

Looking tired, Bard nodded. A part of Thorin wanted to sail down the River Running forthwith and take the Master to task but, reluctant as he was to concede it, Bard was right. The King Under the Mountain had no say in Esgaroth and Dale's internal affairs or Bard and the Master's dealings with each other, unless invited by one party or both to act as a mediator. Bard slumped back into his chair, rubbing a trembling hand over his face. _At least officially_ , added Thorin, with a vicious twist of anticipation. When the Dwarves escorted the next shipment of gold to Laketown, they would leave the Master with no illusions as to whose side Erebor would stand on in his petty feud with Bard.

Aloud, Thorin said, "Supper will soon be served. Shall we reconvene in a fortnight to discuss Master Dofur's preliminary drafts?" Debating with himself after Bard's muffled _yes_ , Thorin then asked, hesitantly, "Would you care to join me? For supper?" Bard's head jerked up, and his stare was startled, conflicted. "You could stay for the play also, the third act of which is to be staged tonight," Thorin continued in almost a babble, to his own disgust, "though I suppose, as a quite popular production or so I've been told, you've seen it before..."

He steeled himself against the itch of Bard's gaze on him, until Bard chuckled lowly, the corners of his eyes crinkling. "Is this _Lords and Ladies_? Tilda's favorite is the Queen of the Elves," he said. "She's been telling me that, when she's older, she'll go out into the woods every day so she, too, can meet the boy meant for her and enchant him to fall in love with her." Bard's smile turned rueful, even as his brow furrowed at the unhappy prospect of his daughter courting. "The Elves find the play rather... scandalous."

Yes, Thorin had no trouble imagining why they might. While the play was billed as a tale of the Elder Days, the King of the Elves bore a striking resemblance to Thranduil. "I assure you that the Dwarves are enjoying the performance immensely," he said with an answering chuckle. Then sobering, he asked again, "Will you come?"

For a brief moment, Bard seemed tempted, but in the end he shook his head, his smile fading. "No, I think it's best..." One hand kneaded the side of his neck as if a cramp there pained him. "I think I'll retire early, my lord, with my pardons." Thorin nodded, trying not to let his disappointment show.

"Then I won't keep you," he said, tone light, rising from his seat, Bard doing the same. "Before I forget, I have something for you." He pushed the hefty tome, bound in aged green leather, that had rested at his elbow the whole council across the table towards Bard, who thumbed its pages curiously. "An accounts ledger," he explained, as Bard drew a finger down the neat columns of figures and descriptions, "detailing several years' worth of imports purchased through Dale, where they came from and with valuations of their market price."

At Bard's grateful glance, he cleared his throat, adding, "It is yours. One of dozens of its like, so it won't be missed." Not strictly true, thought Thorin, but he would not risk Bard refusing his gift out of a misguided sense of propriety. "There is an index by kind of all the goods traded in the back, and I've taken the liberty of including several maps, of Rhûn, Gondor and Near Harad." Bard swallowed, gently shutting the book. He searched Thorin's polite expression— _just accept this kindness_ —before tucking the book under one arm and, with a solemn bow of his head to Thorin that he held for a couple long heartbeats, departing.

Once Bard was gone, Thorin sighed and braced his hands on the table; his head swam, feeling like it might float off the anchor of his neck. _It went well_ , he reassured himself. Though seeing as their previous negotiations had nigh on been a prelude to war, it would have been difficult indeed for them to have done worse. Thorin grinned and must have looked a fool because a mild voice said, "I did not know that you've been meeting with Bard."

He spun on his heels to face the speaker, flushing. "Balin!" That the other Dwarf was still here had entirely slipped his mind. Balin hummed, gathering his papers into a stack that he tapped against the table until the sheets were orderly and with a certain... expectant air. Thorin coughed into a fist, shifted from foot to foot, and finally decided that such cowardice was beneath him and squared his shoulders, clasping his hands behind him as if he were a truant child called before his tutor. "Balin, I—that is, we—" He stammered to a stop. Suddenly, he did not want to share the memories of his and Bard's nights wandering about Erebor together, seized by a formless dread that putting them into words would leave them shorn of warmth and texture.

Balin's eyebrow crept higher into his hairline as Thorin remained stubbornly silent. "Well," he said at last, with a quiet huff, "kings are entitled to some secrets, I'll grant, and whatever possessed the two of you to seek each other's company"—Thorin bore the shrewd gaze Balin pinned him with stonily—"I can't complain of the results so far, as it appears to have done wonders for diplomatic relations." A pause, as Balin dropped his chin to his chest and stroked his beard, considering. "Is this why you hoped to defer settling debts with Bard for our labors in Dale? Your... friendship?"

"No." His answer was quick. And thoughtless, for as soon as Thorin uttered it, he began to doubt his motivations. Truly, he'd reckoned the Men to be without the resources to pay them, save for the gold that would've been rather poor recompense had it been given only to be received back, not a coin having moved from Erebor's vaults, but had he reached that conclusion too eagerly, in a desire to spare Bard the indignity of begging for aid? Thorin didn't know. "Perhaps," he gritted out.

Nodding, Balin advised, tone measured, "Do not forget that you are King Under the Mountain"— _I could never_ , a part of Thorin cried, recoiling from the very idea; the cost of his crown had been too great for that—"and the day may dawn when you must weigh Erebor's needs against bonds of fellowship, just as Bard may have to, after he comes into his own as Lord of Dale."

Thorin inhaled sharply, an ache pressing at his ribs from within. He was no stranger to the personal toll rank and responsibility exacted, politics casting a shade upon every relationship, but it'd been easy to ignore that he and Bard were more than a sleepless host indulging his sleepless guest's interest in his home. _It was not meant to last_ , he thought, tongue leaden in his mouth.

A touch of Balin's hand on his shoulder startled him. "Thorin," Balin said, expression stern, "I did not mean that Bard cannot be friend as well as ally. With careful handling and"—he smiled wryly—"not a little luck, I wager, you and he need not fear being at odds. Leastways not over anything that can't be resolved by some hours of proper talk in a council room." Thorin groaned at the pointed look Balin shot him. Trust Balin, a born diplomat, to be offended by the inept parley before the battle, a barricade between the disputing parties and armies camped in sight of all. He much preferred this teasing to Balin's reticence of then, however, too afraid for him to upset him. "For Erebor's needs will align with Dale's," Balin finished, "our two kingdoms the stronger in standing united."

So it was that Thorin stood comfortably at Bard's side as the two of them watched the children of Dale play in the snow fresh fallen before Erebor's gates. The four-day storm that had swept out of the Grey Mountains was like to be the last of the season, according to Óin, and when the snows melted, the Men would depart for Dale, laden with the tents and tools Thorin had, at their meeting a week past, finally managed to press on Bard upon the condition that they be returned within a year.

Already some of the Dwarves were beginning to lament how empty the Mountain's halls would sound without the high, pealing laughter of many women and children, recipes left unexchanged, projects uncompleted and plays unseen. The call for workers to fill the rosters of the construction crews bound for Dale in the spring and summer was answered with more enthusiasm than Thorin had hoped for, even with the inducement of pay in each household's choice of grains, meat, fish, fruit and vegetables. Individual shares for hours labored, he and Bard had decided, the rest to go as a tithe to the king's stores, though the listing of foodstuffs on offer and in what amounts was at this point tentative.

 _It will be strange not to see him_ , thought Thorin, eyes on Bard as the man shouted encouragement at Tilda and a gaggle of younger girls who were pelting a fleeing Bain mercilessly with snowballs, his outrage that his father would so blatantly favor his sister echoing across the field. Between councils to review the plans Master Dofur and his draftsmen were drawing at a prodigious rate, councils to discuss the seemingly hundreds of details that suddenly needed addressing as the Men's departure neared, and _yet more_ councils to announce proposals to gathered groups of Dwarves and Men both, hear their concerns—a practice Bard insisted on, accustomed to Laketown's way of ruling by general acclamation, Thorin could only assume, despite how he was often white with tension at speaking before the crowds—Thorin had grown to expect Bard's tall, lean frame and habitually dour face to be a fixture of his day.

 _Of my nights, too_ , Thorin added wryly. For they continued to meet when all of Erebor slumbered, save the guards on duty. In recent weeks, however, they'd taken to sitting in the dining hall together and nursing cups of mulled wine, too exhausted to brave corridors and flights of stairs that stretched endless into the gloom.

The first couple times were... awkward. Neither of them knew quite what to say to one another without the distraction of Erebor's wondrous sights. But Bard did not tell him his presence was unwanted and Thorin did not want to leave, a niggling kernel of guilt hard in his stomach at his own reluctance to seek his ghosts in the chill of the catacombs instead. Eventually, haltingly, they learned to converse anew. Their tongues loosened by warm, spiced wine, perhaps, and the enfolding dark beyond the glow of their candles, an expectant hush in the predawn air.

No rhyme nor reason was there to their talks now. They changed topics like wheeling birds in a clear, blue sky, turning one direction, then another at a whim or the tug of a breeze. While, by tacit agreement, they still tried to keep a wide berth of the crueler parts of their histories, in many ways, Thorin found these rambling dialogues revealing of who Bard was at heart.

"Creatures of habit—that's what we all are," his grandfather had once instructed him, dressing for a dinner engagement at Dale's most exclusive crayfish house, where tables were reserved months in advance. Unless you happened to be a personal friend of Lord Girion's, of course, treating coal brokers from the Iron Hills to a local delicacy. "Likes and dislikes, the customs of a lifetime, color our view. It is always easier to convince a dwarrow to do as you wish, Thorin, if he can be made to believe it is his wont."

 _And Men are no different._ Shrieks and laughter from the children, as Bain rallied the boys to defend themselves. Clusters of chatting adults ringed the battleground, the parents and not a few Dwarves, too, wearing indulgent expressions. Thorin allowed himself an inward smile, not ashamed in the least at plying his ever expanding knowledge of Bard's wont to free them both from the damnable council room. Bard would work himself into a stupor, if given half a chance, and unlike Thorin—who could, contrary to Óin and Balin's oft-voiced protests, admit when he had reached his limits—the fool man did not have a company of minders to curb his excesses.

So, as soon as the sun shone again, Thorin had suggested to a frazzled Bard that his children might enjoy some hours outside after a week cooped up in the Mountain—

_"Winter was my favorite season." Thorin snorted, skeptical. "I won't deny that winters in Esgaroth were hard," said Bard, his eyes gleaming in the candlelight, "with the cold, short rations and sickness—the boardwalks would freeze over with slush and become a hazard—but the months when ice covered the lake were the only ones I wouldn't be called away to my barge."_

_Thorin averted his gaze to his hands, wrapped around his cup. "Sigrid would mend clothes while Bain and I wove baskets from the rushes she'd collected in summer, Tilda soaking them for us a bunch at a time." The grief Thorin didn't want to see on Bard's face, feeling an intruder, was muted in his voice, softened by the fondness mention of his children never failed to bring forth._

_"And when the weather was fair, we'd cross the bridge to walk along the shore at the forest's edge." A chuckle, rasping from Bard's throat a little unwillingly. "She would scold Bain and Tilda for playing in the snow, fretting that they'd catch their deaths, but that didn't stop her from pushing me into the tallest drift she could find."_

_"It was summer I loved best," Thorin said, after Bard fell silent, "when the sun beat down hotter than the fires in the forges." The peaks of the Blue Mountains would shimmer hazily, the sea a jewel-toned reflection of the cloudless sky. "My sister and her husband would drag me out to the beach so they could wade in the waves while I watched their sons."_

_He'd grouse but halfheartedly, Fíli's hand small and precious in his as he pulled Thorin, babbling excitedly, to where Kíli had unearthed another shelled oddity or pretty pebble, worn smooth by the tides. Blinking, Thorin drank deep, the wine salty on his lips, and Bard joined him. There was nothing more to be said._

—and been gratified by Bard's quick assent, what was surely everybody in Erebor who could excuse himself from duties for the afternoon following their example.

Fortunately, they did not have to dig their way out; the Mountain's bulk had shielded the gates, the storm winds blowing in from the north. Still, the snow was heaped high in great sloping banks that the children flopped backwards into like they were featherbeds, sending up plumes of powder. Glittering in the sunlight and a pristine white, the field was soon crisscrossed by enough footprints to herald an army—not far from the truth, Thorin thought, amused—and wider furrows where the snow had been churned by play. Bright, moving spots of color in woolen hats, mittens, and scarves were scattered everywhere.

Ori and several other Dwarves had been very busy knitting with a group of women in the evenings, the fruits of their long labors proudly presented to family, friends, and unsuspecting passersby. Not even Thorin had escaped Ori. Who'd ambushed him at the gates with a cobalt blue scarf that was looped over Thorin's head as snugly as a hangman's noose before he could duck outside. The scarf was finely made, which Thorin grudgingly approved of, the weave so close it might have come from a loom, but the generous fringes on the ends were hardly fitting. And if he sometimes caught his fingers smoothing the silky wool, well, it was only because he was unused to wearing such a thing.

At least Bard had also been similarly bedecked. Atop his coat he wore a circular monstrosity that looked not unlike a large fuzzy wreath, wound twice about his neck in coils that hung across his chest. Thorin supposed the color, a mossy green threaded through with golden brown, was pleasing to the eye and the weather, though warming, yet too brisk for a Man to forgo extra layers of clothing. Bard's cheeks and, Thorin noted with glee, the tip of his nose were red from the cold.

He was about to point the latter out when he felt the unmistakable wet thump of a snowball hitting the back of his head. He growled. _Who dares?_ Had the entire breadth of the Wilderland and Eriador not lain between him and Dwalin, there would've been no question who his assailant was, but as it stood Thorin could not guess; the rest of the Company were too respectful of his position as king to throw snow at him like they were still striplings at their mothers' heels. Eyes narrowed, he turned to face the culprit. Icy water trickled down the nape of his neck.

"Balin," he said incredulously. The accused, a red knit cap sitting at a rather rakish angle upon his head, did not deny his guilt. He in fact had the gall to begin scooping together more snow as Thorin fumed at him, the impish twinkle in his eye and puff of white yarn decorating the peak of his hat lifting years from his manner. Thorin sniffed. "I would've thought you too old for children's games."

"Games? Oh, no, Thorin," said Balin, carefully packing his snow into a firm but not too firm ball, "this is a contest of skill and arms." He gave Thorin a look that was at once wounded and reproving. "Old I am, aye, but even a warrior past his prime may take pride in keeping his wits and his aim sharp."

From behind Thorin came a strangled noise, then a chuckle poorly disguised as a cough. _If that is how it is to be..._ He spread his arms in mock challenge, shifting his balance more onto the balls of his feet while moving slightly to his left. When Balin let fly his snowball, Thorin was ready.

Just as his and Dwalin's armsmaster had taught them, Thorin watched not hand nor arm but the chest and shoulders and was thus forewarned of Balin's attack. Pivoting on his right foot, he spun away with space to spare. Trickier was regaining his footing, his heels almost sliding out from under him, but he managed to stave off embarrassment with a wobble and maybe a little flailing. Bard had no such luck.

Eyes widening as he suddenly realized Balin's snowball would hit _him_ without Thorin to block it, Bard made to step back, put a foot wrong, and fell face up into the snow with a quiet _oof_ , a gangling sprawl of limbs. Thorin smirked. The snowball sailed harmlessly over Bard's prone body; Balin immediately started sputtering in apology between glares at Thorin.

"It appears both your wits and aim are in dire need of honing, old friend," Thorin observed dryly. Bard groaned from his hollow of snow, one hand covering his face and shoulders shaking. Thorin felt quite pleased with himself at the curl of a smile peeking out from beneath Bard's palm.

What he had not expected was Bain's shout of " _Da!_ " Thorin glanced up, alarmed, and caught a glimpse of Bain running determinedly towards them. Before a snowball hit him square in the face. It broke apart on the bridge of his nose with a splatter, blinding him. He cursed, his skin stinging, and staggered a bit. Finally wiping his eyes clean of snow, he sought Bard's delinquent son. Water beaded distractingly on his lashes and dripped from his nose; his cheeks and beard were damp with it, the taste of it cool and crisp on his lips.

But it was not Bain who'd so brought low the King Under the Mountain. Bard had propped himself up on one elbow, eyes dancing at Thorin's disgruntled face, and kneeling in the snow next to him was Tilda. Who cast Thorin decidedly guilty looks while patting her hands down her father's sides, as thorough as Óin would've been in her place.

"Darling, I'm not hurt," Bard said softly, stroking Tilda's ice-frosted hair. Flecks of snow crowned Bard's own dark head, a net of sparkling white gems. "Tilda here was the terror of every crow that thought the fields under her guard easy pickings," he added to Thorin. "A sharp eye and a mean throw—isn't that what Farmer Vanrin always used to tell me?" Bard hugged Tilda close with one arm and dropped a light kiss upon her brow as she squirmed in bashful joy, giggling.

Thorin hardened his expression into a most fearsome scowl, though not without a struggle he nearly lost, undone by a sweet child's laugh. "My lady, you have wronged me," he intoned. Tilda gasped, aghast, just as Bain skidded to a panting stop beside his sister; Bard merely arched an eyebrow, unconcerned. "My honor and that of my house—nay, of my people!—demand satisfaction for the... grave injury you dealt my pride." Then he turned to the watching Dwarves and raised his voice, his words ringing across the field. "Sons of Durin! Will you stand idle, I ask, at this insult to your king? _Du bekâr! Du bekâr!_ " And a roar sounded from a hundred Dwarven throats that shook the Mountain itself.

Bard was no laggard. By the time Thorin turned back, he had scooped up Tilda, who squealed in delight, and broken into a sprint towards the largest group of Men, Bain fast on his heels as his long legs ate up the distance, both of them yelling and waving frantically to rally their troops. No more amiable chatting now, the lines of battle drawn. Thorin bared his teeth in a feral grin, armed himself with a snowball in each hand, and set off in pursuit of Bard, Balin following his lead with a chuckle. " _Khazâd ai-mênu!_ " he cried as they joined the fray.

The lowering sun had stretched the shadow of the Mountain's southern spur deep into the valley when Bard at last called a truce, the battle decided not by either side claiming victory but by the sniffling of the youngest combatants as a chill wind stirred with the approaching dusk. Dwarven coats lined with fur, their owners of hardier stock than Men, were hastily shucked to bundle up children and not a few parents, too, who were beginning to feel the bite of the cold without strenuous activity to warm them.

It was a bedraggled yet cheerful lot that filed back into Erebor, trailing partially melted snow through the entrance hall by general accord to the dining hall. Where they were met by a chorus of exasperated disapproval from the women on kitchen duty as tables and benches scrubbed clean for supper were heaped carelessly with sopping clothes. Thorin basked in the radiant heat of a blazing firepit, one of several, having stripped to his undertunic after sending for towels and blankets. Mothers scolding their children and wives their husbands, animated recountings of what was already being embroidered into a proper war—he was content to listen to the happy hubbub of his people and Bard's, all their voices mingled.

How Fíli and Kíli would've loved this! Even after they'd completed their survival training and been deemed fit by Dwalin to be added to the winter roster of guards and merchant escorts, his sister-sons had never been able to resist a good tussle in the snow. It was not uncommon for Thorin to find Dís bemoaning their childish antics as she hung their clothes to dry by the hearth or them pelting each other with snowballs, usually instead of collecting firewood as instructed, when he was on the road with them. Thorin would sit them down for a stern lecture on responsibility or some such, he remembered with a fondness that warmed him more than the steaming bowl of soup a woman pressed into his hands, but inwardly he smiled at their high spirits. And Fíi and Kíli knew it, the rascals, for they were not deterred the next time or the next.

Fíli would be at those tables, Thorin finally judged, in a quieter corner. Bard was there, straddling a bench and Tilda seated before him, with many other Dwarves as well as parents and their children, combs in hand. Thorin studied Bard's relaxed posture, expression intent but tranquil as he gently untangled his daughter's hair, and thought Fíli might have felt the same. He'd been more given to contemplation than his brother, and while he could drink and make merry with the best, by evening's end he would settle at just such a corner table, drawn to the unhurried conversations of kindly folk who had nowhere else to be for the moment.

Silver and gold clasps and beads of different sizes and designs gleamed on the tabletop. One of the Dwarves from the Iron Hills, sitting beside Tilda, was letting her examine each piece of jewelry with curious fingers as he strung them back into place with the ease of daily practice. Hoary warrior and girl-child talked, an unlikely pair, too softly for Thorin to hear—by the way he stopped often to demonstrate a braid and she to enthuse over a particularly pretty ornament, about their mutual appreciation of hair fashions, apparently—Bard interrupting on occasion with a short comment and a chuckle that made Tilda scrunch her face at him.

Kíli, however, would seek rowdier company, brimming with energy. A loud burst of laughter drew Thorin's gaze then, Ori's plaintive cry of "And I missed it all!" clear above the din. Nori, who'd also been absent, patted his shoulder consolingly, vowing, "Next time, Ori... We'll show 'em next time!" Dori didn't look quite so pleased at the prospect of a next time, a pile of soggy towels gathered in his arms, but Thorin knew he'd be charging into battle, yelling fit to scare his foes witless, right alongside his brothers when that time came.

"Aye, I say we have a _yearly_ contest—us Dwarves against you Men!" seconded Bofur, to a roar of approval and more laughter. "Not that you didn't give us a fair runnin' today..." He collared Bain, standing unwisely near, and mussed the boy's hair to much protest, from Bain, and much amusement, from the watching adults. " 'Specially this one and his friends!" Bain squirmed free of Bofur's grasp to plop down on a bench, arms crossed and a black scowl on his face that so resembled his father's in a pique that Thorin had to bite the inside of his cheek.

Soon enough, though, Bain was smiling again, ducking his head at the men's praises of his cleverness. Thorin smiled, too, his rueful rather than proud. For indeed the children had been a menace on the field and not least because most of the Dwarves were reluctant to lob anything full force at some slip of a girl. Bain had led his troops on ambushes of the small sorties Thorin sent forth from the safety of their fortress for more snow, using tactics that were honorless and, to Thorin's chagrin, proved very effective.

While the Dwarves had an initial threefold advantage in numbers, the Men held their own for the first half hour. Bard's aim was as deadly with a snowball in hand as with a bow and arrow, his forces on the whole consistently competent. Fewer Dwarves could so accurately gauge the distance to a moving target at longer ranges, being primarily melee fighters; of the Company, only his sister-sons and Ori might have been able to. Thorin must have wasted every third breath sighing, unutterably mortified, as seasoned Dwarven warriors missed their marks by the yard in their eagerness. Fíli and Kíli had spoiled him.

"But better that the odds are even from the start," Bofur lamented with a heavy groan, "so I won't have to play the turncloak again." Thorin narrowed his eyes at that. If Bofur and his fellow traitors, Bifur and Dofur among them, hadn't thoroughly enjoyed their defection, Thorin would eat Bofur's hat and gladly! The giant boulder the Men had amassed hidden from their sight behind a tall drift, then rolled careening down the slope to flatten the main curtain wall of their fortress in a smash of snow and dazed defenders who were too slow getting out of the way—Thorin recognized the work of Dwarves when he saw it.

"Come now, Master Dwarf," said one of the Men, grinning widely and crookedly, "You threw more snow at your king than the lot o' us put together!" Bofur's denials were drowned by another round of laughter, as the Men swapped increasingly embellished tales of his heroics. The good-natured boasting continued unabated, except for a hearty cheer when trays of mugs sloshing with mead and ale were brought from the kitchens.

With a huff, Thorin turned his attention to finishing the rest of his soup before it cooled. If he did not listen too closely, he could trick his ears into hearing Kíli's voice calling for a toast and Fíli's murmuring to a child's giggles. His lip twisted. _Almost._ The soup was too salty for his liking, he found, herbs bitter on his tongue. When his spoon scraped the bottom of his bowl, he stared blindly at the whorls in the wood and tasted nothing but guilt—sticking to the roof of his mouth, congealed in the pit of his stomach, sharp and sour.

How long since he last thought of Fíli and Kíli like this? He had been too occupied, he told himself, busy with his duties, strengthening Erebor's alliance with the Men of Dale and his still fledgling friendship with Bard. But the truth, Thorin realized, was that he had been too... _happy_. He sneered. Playing in the snow with nary a care, as though he could make up for his sister-sons' absence. _What right have I?_ He knew exactly what he deserved.

A touch on his shoulder startled him. It was Balin, of course. "Thorin, won't you join us?" He swallowed under Balin's searching eyes, the glint in them understanding. The Company was waiting for him, expressions hopeful, at a table—actually several, shoved together in a haphazard fashion nobody seemed to mind—with Dwarves and Men of their acquaintance and, to Thorin's surprise, Bard as well as his children. While he came more often to the dining hall, during breakfast to greet his men and with Thorin when their councils ended near suppertime, never had Bard stayed so long nor to eat at any of the typically crowded tables.

Bard's grip on his spoon was white-knuckled and his shoulders hunched, but he smiled down at Tilda, nestled against his side and chattering at Master Dofur on her other side, her arm looped through his an anchor he would not cast away. Sitting opposite Tilda, the two of them framing their father as the stone sentinels did Erebor's gates, was Bain. Who also kept a hand at Bard's elbow, which Thorin noticed he would tap to warn Bard of approaching Men and Dwarves, whispering in Bard's ear to slight nods, before they could clap him on the back in half-drunken congratulations or lean over his shoulder to offer their compliments. "Da doesn't like to be touched by strangers," Bain had said, and Thorin remembered Bard's fingers locked vise-like around his wrist in unconscious reaction, one born of nerves rasped raw by too many hard trials in too short a count of days that the man was ill prepared for.

Yet Bard stayed now, on edge, try as he did to hide it. _For them_ , Thorin thought. Tilda and Bain both snuck shy glances at Bard when he wasn't looking, faces alight with an innocent joy that their father was here and all was well in their world. The Men did much the same, reassuring themselves that their lord had no worries greater than there being no fresh-baked rolls left in the basket he refused to just call for, and this more than any riches or titles that could be bestowed upon him told Thorin a crown would someday grace Bard's head. _I can do no less._ Did Balin not deserve to be unburdened by his king's troubles? The Company to see that their care was not in vain, no matter that Thorin felt his gravest hurts beyond mending? 

He grabbed a couple rolls from a passing tray and strode over to present one to Bard with an impatient grunt. Bard accepted with a sheepish nod before, predictably, splitting the roll in two, giving half to Bain and half to Tilda. Thorin sighed, glad for his foresight, and handed Bard the other roll to an even more sheepish thanks. But instead of eating it, Bard hesitated, biting his lip, then again split the roll in two, this time giving half back to Thorin. Who stared at the bread, soft and warm between his fingers, all of a sudden unsure what to do. He berated himself for foolishness, ate it, and took a seat across the table from Bard. It tasted far sweeter than it ought.

  


**TBC**

  


> I've taken some liberties with the ages of the Dwarves in the Company. According to _The Lord of the Rings_ , Appendix A, "Durin's Folk," Thorin is actually the eldest member, born in III 2746 and a sprightly 195(!) years old at the time of the Quest of Erebor. Kíli is the youngest, aged 77 (b. III 2864), with Fíli only five years older than him. Thorin's cousins are, in order from oldest to youngest, Balin (178), Dwalin (169), Óin (167), and Glóin (158). No birth dates are given for Dori, Nori, and Ori, distant kinsmen of Thorin, or Bifur, Bofur, and Bombur, descended from the Dwarves of Khazad-dûm. However, from comments in _The Hobbit_ about the relative ages of the Dwarves, they all must be at least fifty years older than Fíli.
> 
> Now, these ages don't seem to jive well, IMO, on certain points—notably, Thorin and Balin's relationship—with Peter Jackson's portrayal of the Dwarves, upon which my characterization is largely based. Though, granted, the timeline of the film adaptation is... _hinky_. Long story short, I felt a little reshuffling of the Company ages would better suit the narrative and my convenience, of course. So, as far as this AU is concerned, the Dwarves, from oldest to youngest: Balin and Óin, who are more or less contemporaries; Dwalin, Thorin, and Glóin, close enough in age (and rank) to be peers; Dori and Nori, Bifur, Bofur, and Bombur, in whatever order the reader prefers, provided the relative ages within each family group are kept straight; Fíli, Kíli, and Ori, the babes of the bunch. Dori, I suppose, is just naturally a silver fox. Either that or Nori's criminal proclivities have worried his hair prematurely white.
> 
> On a more somber note, after waffling a bit about whether to kill Fíli and Kíli, as in canon, I finally decided to do so because politics! With Thorin alive as king and Dáin dead in his place, there was a lot of friction between the Dwarves originally of Erebor and the Dwarves from the Iron Hills new come to the Mountain that I just didn't think I could handle well on top of developing a credible Thorin/Bard romance, with Bard a recovering victim of rape per the prompt. Luckily for me, Thorin Stonehelm was born in III 2866 ( _The Lord of the Rings_ , Appendix A, "Durin's Folk"), making him a mere two years younger than Kíli at the time of the Quest. Thorin could then name his namesake heir, appeasing Dáin's followers while also observing the laws of inheritance, assuming primogeniture, but only if his sister-sons did not survive the Battle of Five Armies. Hey, I at least spared Thorin the guilt of knowing Fíli and Kíli fell "defending him with shield and body" ( _The Hobbit_ , Chapter XVIII, "The Return Journey"). Thanks for that depressing image, Tolkien!

> I know diddlysquat about archery beyond what I can learn from Wikipedia and ten-minute Google searches. Let's just pretend there's something distinctive about Bard's form. Besides that his arrows are CGI. XD
> 
> Details of Bard's bow and the black arrow come straight from Weta's _The Hobbit: The Desolation of Smaug Chronicles: Cloaks & Daggers_ and the DOS EE. The former is 2.2 meters (7.2 feet) tall, inspired by the traditional English longbow but with a strong Asian influence, which I believe accounts for its size and flatter profile as well as Bard's behind-the-ear draw, seen also in Mongolian archery and Japanese or _kyudo_. Luke Evans is 6 feet (1.8 meters) in height, and I've eyeballed Bard's regular arrows—minds outta the gutter!—at 3 feet minimum, up to over 4 feet in length.
> 
> The black arrow is some 2 meters (6.6 feet) long and, in my headcanon, is forged of a space age metal with a better strength-to-weight ratio than steel, now forgotten. Titanium aluminide (TiAl), for instance, a superalloy that's resistant to deformation at high temperatures, corrosion and oxidation, with modern applications in jet engines. I mean, Smaug is not unlike a jumbo jet, right? And in _The Lord of the Rings: The Fellowship of the Ring_ (Book II, Chapter I, "Many Meetings"), Glóin does say, 'But in metalwork we cannot rival our fathers, many of whose secrets are lost. We make good armour and keen swords, but we cannot again make mail or blade to match those that were made before the dragon came.'
> 
> [@](http://silmarile.tumblr.com/post/103232342884)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, this is a little premature because I'm several thousand words short of where I hoped to end this section, but I really, badly wanted to post _something_ before BOFA premieres. Weekly updates will continue at the kink meme, linked in the summary, and I'll add the rest to the chapter here when it's all written.
> 
>  **2014-12-12**     Posting on the kink meme has passed AO3!  
>  **2015-01-24**     Chapter 1 completed! You can [skip to and read](http://archiveofourown.org/works/1588436/chapters/6045971#update) just the latest update.


	2. The Master

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I don't know if I'm weirdly proud or just really ashamed that my first attempt at writing smut is a sequence of explicit dub/non-con scenes over thirty thousand words long. Per the prompt from the [Hobbit Kink Meme](http://hobbit-kink.livejournal.com), this chapter has a very strong **warning for graphic rape and torture**. Rape fantasies abound! And the Master threatens Bard's children, then all under the age of ten, once with semi-graphic murder and sexual abuse. (Why, yes, I am a complete monster!)
> 
> Being frankly no expert on the psychology of rape, I am indebted to [**pretzel_logic**](http://archiveofourown.org/users/pretzel_logic) for acting as my friendly research anon on the kink meme. She was an invaluable help to me in refining the characterizations of Bard and the Master as well as a fantastic source of inspiration, coming up with many ideas I've incorporated into the story. Finally, what I'm posting is actually the second half of a planned two-part work, the first being Thorin's perspective of events, how his relationship with Bard developed and when he found out about his lover's history with the Master. That chapter, however, is stalled for the foreseeable future until I iron out some wrinkles in the plot. For now, I think this can be read as a standalone. Comments and suggestions are, as always, welcome!
> 
>  **2014-12-01**     First part of Thorin's POV added as Chapter 1!

The Master of Laketown could remember exactly when the idea first came to him. He was sitting on the edge of his bed, a whore sucking his cock, when he looked down and was struck by how the woman's hair resembled Bard's. Dark and shoulder-length, it was coarse silk to the touch as it wound through his fingers. He jerked hard on a handful, drawing a low moan from the whore, fixated by how the waves sprang back into form and the firelight revealed colors of rich brown, gilding every strand. Suddenly, he wanted to see proud Bard brought low, kneeling on the floor before him in the whore's place, mouth put to better use than spreading dissent. His cock jumped at the thought, his balls tightened, and he came with a groan, the whore obediently swallowing. Could he teach Bard to do the same? And the man would need to be taught, for the Master doubted he had the whore's experience or skill, so long devoted was he to his wife.

For days after he dismissed the whore, whose name he never bothered to learn, the Master considered this new desire of his. There were men in Laketown of such proclivities—he made it his business to know the vices of his subjects—but he had not counted himself among their number. Then again, he supposed there was little difference between a woman's mouth and a man's when it was wrapped around your cock, and he could not deny that imagining Bard at his mercy, finally bowing to his authority and willingly so, if only because there was no other choice, greatly excited him. The Master wasn't one to deny himself pleasure, whether of the flesh or the mind. Why should Bard be an exception? And so he resolved to coerce the man into his bed.

That it would require force was not an entirely unhappy prospect either. While the Master despised toil on principle, especially effort wasted on his part, he could appreciate the consummate application of power and felt taming Bard would be worth the trouble. The young soon-to-be captain of guards was much admired—bold, charming in his own grim fashion, as talented with the bow as any Elf, an upstanding husband and father, and worst of all an idealist, head filled with the most ridiculous populist fancies. The Master would suffer no challenges to his position, and this heir of Girion presented one, something of a king in his bearing no matter how disgraced or impoverished his line.

Threats the Master could make against wife and children, but he had no assurances that Bard, the defiant fool, wouldn't react violently. He did not wish to find himself on the sharp end of an arrow in the dark or, if that woman of Bard's, who was no wilting flower despite her seemingly frail beauty, managed to talk sense into her husband, on the losing side of a people's revolt. The damnable shrew, a wealthy merchant's daughter, was far better at navigating the treacherous shoals of politics than Bard was and fiercely protective of her family, whom she'd been disowned by her kin to have. He rather thought she wouldn't take kindly to loaning out her lover for another to despoil, man or woman of high rank or low.

Besides, the Master suspected a man like Bard was best chained with honor and—he shuddered, wanting to palm his cock but resisting the urge (for now)— _shame_. Short of having Bard's wife killed, however, he could see no way to leave Bard vulnerable to the necessary manipulations. The Master had few scruples, but murder was a messy affair he preferred to keep as a last resort. He could be patient, he decided, waiting for an opportunity that would almost certainly come with so many dying daily of sickness and other perfectly natural causes.

Months passed, and he'd begun toying with the idea of buying cutthroats to attack the bitch, perhaps on a trip to market, once Bard's third whelp was born—he was not a monster, and a hungry babe was but more leverage on the father—when fate saved him several pursefuls of gold. The loss of his beloved wife to fever after the difficult birth left Bard distraught. Seeing his chance, the Master schemed to drive Bard onto a precipice where he'd have to accept the Master's terms or else leap, orphaning his children.

First, Bard could not be allowed to retain his rank in the Laketown guard, and his anticipated promotion to captain was now out of the question. This was a position of too much influence that was too often in the public eye, as well, gave Bard access to _far_ too many weapons for the Master's comfort, and paid too well when the Master's plans needed Bard destitute, ready to crawl on hands and knees to receive his favor.

Given Bard's exemplary service record and his dutiful nature that would not balk at menial tasks or hard labor, it proved problematic to force the man from the guard against his will. Then Bard did the Master's work for him by resigning. And over so minor a concern as the Master denying his request for leave, too! The Master could only assume Bard's wits had been addled by grief because it had never been standard practice to grant salaried absences for mourning or family issues to common soldiers, even ones about to be appointed officers. That Bard's commander was hesitant to deliver the Master's orders, dared to suggest in fact that his policy was lacking in compassion, was yet another mark against letting Bard continue as a guardsman, free to rabble-rouse.

With Bard out of one job, the Master ensured he would not find a second. This was a simple matter of raising taxes, enough to discourage farmers and tradesmen from hiring new help but not enough to incite anything more rebellious than grumbling. As a bonus, the prices of many major commodities, including food, rose also as producers tried to defray higher operating costs. The Master awoke one morning to hear that the price of milk was up by five percent for the third week in a row and knew he'd have Bard kneeling before him soon.

Finally, a week later, he had Bard brought to his study. The man looked as if he hadn't slept soundly for a month, ragged along the edges and eyes red in hollows of skin bruised black. His cheeks were gaunt with hunger, and his shabby clothes hung loose on his bony frame. The Master felt a faint stirring of pity at the sight. Which was utterly snuffed out ere it could warm his heart when he saw the unbent insolence in Bard's expression, resentment like torches in the night burning in those weary eyes.

"You wanted to see me, Master?" There was not the least bit of respect in Bard's voice, his title made into an insult. The Master was infuriated. He wanted to break Bard in half and half again and again, to wreck that composure of his, which stayed untouched and prideful even as the world spent its cruelty on him. _The heir of kings you may be_ , the Master thought in a rush of vicious satisfaction, _but that won't stop me from taking you like a common whore._

Choking down his rage, the Master smiled pleasantly. "Now, Bard, there's no need for such an ugly tone. Why, I imagine you'll soon be thanking me!" Bard gritted his teeth at this but, wonder of wonders, held his tongue. "As I'm sure you know, times are hard," the Master continued. "When old Guthran came to me saying his joints couldn't stand another hour in the cold and damp, leaving me short a bargeman for the Forest River"—Guthran had done nothing of the sort, of course, before the Master informed him his services would no longer be required—"I thought immediately of you, dear Bard. So tragically separated from your lovely young wife—my belated condolences on your loss—and with three growing children to care for."

Bard's face was frozen in a grimace, of pain or anger or both, the Master couldn't tell. "You... you _dare...!_ " He wrenched his gaze away from the Master with a sudden jerk of his head and clenched his fists at his sides, hands quivering with suppressed emotion. The Master traced the fall of Bard's hair with his eyes, fingers twitching on the armrests of his chair to compare the feel of the dark strands to those of the nameless whore. Bard swallowed, the Master watching his throat move, then said, hoarsely, "I would be... grateful, Master, if you... if you could do me the kindness of hiring me as your new bargeman."

The Master took in Bard's downcast eyes but thought the illusion—and he was not so fool as to believe Bard's newfound deference was anything better than playacting—of submission was rather spoiled by the tense set of Bard's shoulders, every muscle clearly straining against the impulse to do him harm. "Ah, Bard," he said, "I would like nothing more than to grant you this boon, but..." Letting the denial linger in the air so he could stretch Bard's nerves taut with frustrated anticipation, the Master shook his head slowly in exaggerated apology. "I'm afraid the posting may present you some difficulty. The forest has grown dangerous in these dark days, and with any other man I would worry for his safety, but as a former guardsman I trust you can handle yourself. Though, Bard, understand that you will not be issued a weapon." Bard was as still as if he'd been graven in stone except for his deep and steady breathing, listening intently. "No, I think you will be able to adequately defend yourself with the bargepole. Your commander in the guard was quite free in his praise of your prowess.

"What truly concerns me is that this is a station that calls for a certain degree of tact and diplomacy, neither of which you are particularly known for, dear Bard, if you'll pardon my honesty." The Master hid a smirk with his hand, pretending to mull over Bard's unfortunate situation while in actuality enjoying the way Bard's jaw locked, no doubt over harsh words. "The Elves seldom come to the river landing, but rarely is not never, so I must have a bargeman whom I can trust to serve Laketown's interests well and my own, naturally." His voice hardened, and his expression was now stern, though Bard did not glance up from the floor. "You are a troublemaker, Bard, and not once have you shown your devotion—your _obedience_ —to me as master of this town that you and your family live in."

Bard was silent for a long moment. At last, he asked, rasping and low, "What would you have me do, Master, to prove my loyalty?"

 _He is nearly mine._ The Master thrilled at his imminent victory, the prize he sought within his grasp, before carefully schooling his reaction. It would not do to let Bard slip away from this trap; he had to leash the man with desperation and the promise of succor. "I believe a test is in order," said the Master, tapping his chin with a finger. "Something irrefutable and... _personal_ that would assure me of your dedication to serving at my _pleasure_ no matter what I ask of you." Judging Bard to be sufficiently cowed that he could step safely inside arm's reach of the man, the Master left his chair, rounded his desk, and stopped in front of Bard, close enough that he imagined Bard could feel the barest brush of his breath ghosting across those sharp cheekbones. "Tell me, Bard, have you ever lain with another man?"

" _What?_ " Bard raised his head abruptly, shocked. "No! I... no..." The Master smiled at this stammered answer. Heat pooled low in his gut, spreading, at the realization that he would be the first to have Bard in this way. He could leave an indelible mark on the man, a brand of ownership under Bard's skin that he would never be rid of regardless of how many lovers, female or male, he took afterwards. Of course, the Master intended to ruin Bard for good in seeking the latter, if he could. Bard must have read his meaning on his face because Bard unconsciously backed away, horror blooming in his eyes. "You... you want me to..."

The Master crowded Bard and, to his delight, Bard continued to give ground until he was mere feet from being pressed against the door. _Such delicious fear_ , thought the Master, knowing he'd caught Bard off-guard. He fully expected Bard to recover given a little more time, at which point he planned to be well out of striking range, but he could exploit his advantage in the meanwhile and drink of Bard's rare vulnerability as he would the finest vintage. He hoped to see this Bard again soon, drawn out by his cock like blood pearling at the point of a knife ever so slowly sunk into tender ( _virgin_ ) flesh. _Or like tears. What would it take to make him cry?_ The Master leaned in to whisper in Bard's ear, wavy locks of hair tickling his lips as his cornered prey trembled. "Yes, Bard, I want you to be _my whore_."

Bard went rigid, and the Master hastily put his desk between them again. _And with not a moment to spare._ Bard covered the distance from door to desk in long, angry strides, teeth bared like a feral dog and a growl building in his chest. "I refuse," he hissed, "to be your _plaything_." A red flush crawled up his neck, the muscles and tendons there bunched into thick cords.

The Master stiffened his spine and reassured himself that he still held the upper hand. There were guards right outside the door in case Bard took complete leave of his senses and physically attacked the Master. What's more, no amount of wrathful protest on Bard's part could change the fact that the Master controlled his livelihood and only means of supporting his children. Bard just needed a firm reminder of his place and circumstances.

"Slake your perverse lusts elsewhere," Bard spat. He then turned on his heel and stormed towards the door. The Master waited until Bard had the door halfway open before speaking, tone smooth and light, as if inquiring about the weather.

"Bard, how old is your youngest? A girl, isn't it? And in need of constant care, I wager." There was no response from Bard, though he paused in the doorway. "Milk with her mother departed and eventually food, healthy and filling, like her brother and sister. Ah, and we mustn't forget warm clothes and a warm house for the winter, so fast to be upon us." Bard's shoulders hunched, and the knuckles of his hand showed white as bone where he gripped the door. "I've written the Elvenking requesting a temporary halt to trade on the Forest River while I hire a new bargeman, but this grace period ends in a week's time. You have until then to reconsider my offer." The Master was mildly surprised that the edge of the door didn't splinter into pieces under Bard's fingers, with such force did he dig his nails, dirty and chipped by hard labor, into the wood. "Can I expect to see you again, Bard?" he pushed.

"... _yes_." The word was choked and barely intelligible, the sound of a wounded animal brought to bay. The Master fancied it scraped Bard's throat raw to say and thought, images of what was to come in glorious parade before his closed eyes, _He is mine._ Bard had fled when the Master recalled himself, so quietly the Master hadn't heard a single footfall, the door standing half ajar. _He'll return. He can't escape me._

In the end, it took Bard almost the full week to come begging, twice as long as the Master originally believed possible. This was a timely warning, the Master decided, that Bard's will was not to be underestimated and that a crippled wolf with one leg caught in a trap could bite still. He winced a bit at this entirely too fitting metaphor and very reluctantly set aside plans to bed Bard for the night. Even if he had Bard chained to the bedposts, he felt he wouldn't be able to relax enough to actually enjoy the experience of fucking the man unless guards were on duty within easy hearing distance. Bard hadn't broken yet, not truly, and until the Master saw resignation in Bard's eyes instead of hate, it behooved him to exercise due caution.

The Master briefly questioned whether he should risk his cock with Bard's teeth but deemed that unavoidable. The idea of Bard sucking his cock like a whore was how this whole affair began, after all, and if he had only this one chance to take Bard before the man balked, the plight of his children be damned, he would have Bard's mouth. A fair exchange, the Master figured, given the trouble that mouth had caused him in the past.

What the Master had not anticipated was how much worse Bard would look. He wrinkled his nose in distaste at Bard's unkempt hair, dark greasy hanks obscuring his downturned face as he stood in the Master's study, curled defensively over his thin arms where they wound around his likely empty stomach. _Has he not bathed since I last saw him?_ the Master wondered in disgust. He did not consider himself an overly fastidious man, but he required a modicum of personal hygiene in his prospective lovers. As it was, if he fucked Bard in the man's current state, he'd be plagued by the need to wipe his hands clean of grime after every touch.

"You wanted to see me, Bard?" The Master let some of his frustration seep into his voice and watched Bard flinch at the implied reproach.

"...yes, Master," said Bard haltingly. His hands tightened convulsively on his crossed arms, and his breaths came quick and shallow. "I... I have reconsidered your offer, Master..." Bard stopped, swallowing dryly, seemingly unable to continue.

"And?" the Master prompted, impatient as he already knew he wouldn't see Bard on his knees today. Though, to be sure, tomorrow was not so long to wait, and this surrender was as sweet as the Master had dreamt.

"I accept." Bard wouldn't be able to manage more than this low croak of an agreement, the Master thought, and he was prepared to move on to discussing the details of their arrangement with a minimum of gloating when Bard surprised him. Straightening and visibly steadying himself, Bard forced his arms to his sides and his head up to meet the Master's gaze, eyes steely. "I accept your terms," he repeated, words clear if clipped, strong but for the slightest quaver at the end. _I won't forget this_ , those eyes said, cold as the northern wastes. _Or forgive._

The Master coughed, dabbing his mouth with a handkerchief he'd blindly grabbed. "Yes, yes... I'm pleased you've come around, Bard." He pulled open one of the drawers in his desk and counted out a dozen gold coins to stuff in a drawstring pouch, glad for the excuse to evade Bard's stare. "Serve me well, Bard, and the post of bargeman on the Forest River is yours."

A sudden wash of resentment surged through the Master. _I am not the weaker one here, Bard._ He tossed the pouch to Bard, who caught it with a faintly puzzled air. "Get yourself cleaned up and a decent meal. I want you presentable for tomorrow." The Master smirked to see how Bard's fingers shook as they closed around the money. "Ready to perform," he added. "Consider those coins payment in advance for your personal services." He deliberately put a nasty edge on the last two words. As he'd hoped, they cut deep, Bard's back curving inward under the weight of the truth. _Remember that you are my whore now, bought and paid for._ "No need to thank me for my generosity," the Master finished breezily. "You're dismissed, Bard. Until tomorrow. I look forward to seeing you then."

And Bard left, silent as a stalking cat. _I must be careful_ , the Master reminded himself again. At the same time, that Bard was not even half tamed, defiant but grudgingly submitting to a violation he could not know the scope or effect of in his inexperience, excited the Master to heights of arousal he'd seldom felt spilling his seed into faceless women, each a pretty blank doll without an ounce of Bard's... _spirit_. Dangerous as it was to play this game with Bard, the Master was determined to test the man to the limits of his willingness and rape from him the dignity he wore like a cloak, marking him as above the common run for all that it was tattered by years of hard living.

His semi-erect cock rubbed uncomfortably against his trousers. The Master shifted in his seat, then yelled for the guards. When a man's face, expression obsequious, appeared around the doorframe with gratifying speed, he ordered, "Hold my next appointment. And shut the door! I have urgent business to attend to." Once this was done, the Master drew his cock from his pants with a sigh of relief, stroking it slowly, the phantom sensation of dark hair, waves unruly, at his fingertips.

**· · ·**

The next day, his afternoon audiences canceled in advance, the Master studied Bard with lazy eyes as the man stood again before him in his study. He noted with satisfaction Bard's clean hair, clean hands, and clean skin, the last scrubbed to a delightful shade of pink where the bones still protruded too sharply. Bard's face was otherwise pale, his eyes shuttered, revealing nothing. He couldn't entirely conceal his ( _delicious_ ) fear, though, the Master saw. His bottom lip was red and swollen, as if he'd been biting it, and at his sides his hands clutched at his dingy coat. _That'll have to come off._ Helpless rage there was also in Bard's tense shoulders, the muscles in arm and leg bunched up in readiness to fight.

So long as Bard didn't act on his violent impulses, the Master cared not how much Bard hated him. _If anything..._ The Master gripped the armrests of his chair as his cock twitched. _A little resistance makes the subjugation all the sweeter._ Anger was so easily turned inward to shame, and the Master did not intend to spare Bard any humiliation. Willing himself to relax, the Master waved a negligent hand and directed, "Take your coat off, Bard." He indicated that Bard ought to drape his coat over one of the chairs kept for petitioners. "Then come here."

Bard was slow to comply, shrugging out of his coat like a man thrice his age whose joints ached deep. His every step was reluctant, gaze fixed on his heavy feet, as he rounded the desk to stop just outside arm's reach in front of the Master in his chair. The Master tamped down his impatience. He gentled his tone when Bard was finally in place. "Bard, kindly kneel." Closer to, the Master could see that Bard's lean frame was racked by minute shivers, ruthlessly suppressed.

"Come now," the Master said, voice as treacle. "There's no sense in delaying the inevitable. A few minutes on your knees, and when I'm well pleased, you leave none the worse for the wear with your livelihood and your children's futures secured. Surely, that is worth your pride?" The Master frowned, though he doubted Bard was aware of much beyond whatever demons he wrestled with in his mind. "Unless... you've had a change of heart on accepting my offer?" Bard flinched. "I can't say I wouldn't be disappointed, but..."

Silent except for a rasping breath, Bard fell to his knees. His head was bowed, fists clenched on his thighs and hair hiding his face, dark strands parted over the nape of his neck. The Master's attention lingered on the bare skin there, picturing his hand wrapped around the knobby ridge of Bard's spine to force him down as he bent to his task.

 _At last!_ "You've chosen wisely, Bard." The Master edged forward in his seat, eager, and hungrily traced with his eyes the jut of Bard's collarbones where his roughspun tunic hung loose, ties open at the neck. Resisting the urge to adjust his stiffening cock, the Master asked, "Do you know what I want?" Bard nodded. "What shall you do next then?"

In answer Bard shuffled nearer—for a man unused to this position, he moved with grace enough, thought the Master, as if he had been born to it—until he crouched between the Master's obligingly spread legs. With shaking fingers, Bard unbuttoned the Master's pants and pulled out his hard cock, drawing a hiss of pleasure from the Master, Bard's calluses sliding along the shaft, tip already gleaming wet, as he held the Master's cock gingerly. Bard hesitated, shuddering more noticeably as he almost gasped for air. "Oh, and Bard?" the Master said, his own pulse quickening. "I don't think I need remind you to keep your teeth well away from any... sensitive parts." After a long moment, Bard shook his head, but his hands reflexively jerked.

The Master stifled a groan, wanting to grab Bard by the hair and stuff his cock down Bard's throat but needing to retain control for now. His fingers locked on the chair's arms, and he cleared his mind with an effort. " _Bard_ ," he snapped, in no mood anymore for niceties. "Hands behind your back. Use only your mouth."

When Bard stalled _again_ after obediently clasping his hands behind him, as if in a trance, the Master gritted his teeth and demanded, "What are you waiting for? I begin to question whether you truly mean to win my favor." The Master smiled, and it was not pleasant at all. "Or would you rather I fuck you like a woman?"

"No, Master," Bard whispered, proving he hadn't gone deaf and mute. His head bowed lower. He took several deep breaths, then leaned in and closed his mouth on the Master's cock.

This time, the Master didn't bother to quiet his groans, hips thrusting shallowly into the wet heat. Bard had no finesse, as expected, sucking cock like a child would an oversized candied apple, sloppy and pulling away between tastes to catch his breath, but this satisfied the Master for a while. He was content to let Bard set a languid pace, the knowledge that it was proud Bard kneeling on the floor before him and Bard's mouth he was fucking like a common whore's kindling a blaze of lust low in his gut. Soon enough, he wanted more.

Seizing a handful of Bard's hair close to the roots—it was coarse silk to the touch as it wound through his fingers—the Master shoved his cock further into Bard's mouth. Bard instinctively tried to recoil as he gagged, but the Master's grip on his hair tightened brutally, the Master's other hand dropping to the nape of his neck, an iron collar, to press his face down. The Master grew painfully hard at the sound Bard made, half choke, half whine.

He began thrusting in earnest, panting as he drove his cock deeper. In and in, until the head hit the back of Bard's throat, massaged by muscles squeezing as they sought in vain to expel him, the desperate squirming of Bard's trapped tongue. Why, the Master fancied he could feel beating against his cock the panicked flutter of Bard's heart as his lungs burned for air.

For a heady moment, his blood thrumming throughout his body at his rape of the man at his feet, the Master thought he might fuck Bard's throat until his scrubbed pink skin shaded blue and he choked to death, mouth still stuffed full of cock. _An end befitting the whore he is now._ Then the Master looked down, and his balls drew up in an all too familiar sensation at the sight.

Bard's face was flushed red, his eyes screwed tightly shut. _No tears. A pity._ His insolent mouth was stretched obscenely around the girth of the Master's cock, and his lips glistened with spit and pre-come, rivulets of fluid pushing out with every thrust the Master made to weep down his chin. Bard trembled—his throat, his jaw, his head as he involuntarily jerked in the Master's hold, and his hands where they were twisted together behind his back, bloody crescents blooming on the skin cut by his nails. The Master imagined painting Bard's insides white with his seed, arousal licking like fire up his spine, and knew he was close. With a few last thrusts, the Master came with a groan, emptying in spurts and wringing from Bard another reedy whine as he forced Bard to gag deep once again on his cock.

This was apparently more than Bard could take. He pushed hard away from the Master with his hands, scrambling backwards on all fours until his coughs grew too violent for him to move farther. The Master, sated, watched through eyes half lidded as Bard gasped wetly, body heaving. One hand curled into a fist on the floor, fingers scratching across the wood; the other shook uncontrollably as Bard lifted it to wipe his mouth, smearing the Master's come over the back, his chin and cheeks. White spatters trailed from the Master to Bard, larger milky splotches pooling where Bard had spat them out. Come streaked Bard's dark hair. A sudden knife of lust stabbed hot through the Master at this proof of his claim upon Bard. His softening cock twitched.

With a sigh, the Master dropped on his desk the wisps of hair he'd torn from Bard's scalp and picked up a handkerchief. He gently cleaned his cock and tucked himself back into his trousers. Shaking his head, the Master tossed the soiled cloth to the floor before Bard and said, "Clean yourself up." Bard's body was still racked by suppressed coughing, but he'd drawn himself up to his knees and now stared at the Master's handkerchief, showing no sign that he intended to take it. The Master affected a disappointed tone. "I knew you were untutored in the art of lovemaking, but I'd hoped..." Another heavy sigh. "I expect better of you tomorrow, Bard."

Bard tensed. "Tomorrow?" Though he didn't glance up, there was an edge in his hoarse voice, sharpening rapidly. "Haven't I kept my end of... our bargain, Master?"

"I'm afraid not, Bard," the Master said, apologetic. "Our agreement was that I would appoint you my bargeman on the Forest River if you pleased me and pleased me _well_." Bard's raspy breathing, which had slowed to a semblance of normality, stuttered, then sped as the Master continued, words practiced. "Today's... performance hardly qualifies. Why, I had to do most of the work myself, so little skill and _enthusiasm_ did you show in your task. And what an unsightly mess you've left!"

" _You...!_ " Bard bit off what, the Master guessed, was most likely a curse, hands trembling again but in unmistakable anger. "What of the Elves?" snapped Bard. "Do they not expect trade to resume soon?"

"Oh, did I not inform you?" The Master pretended surprise. "I've been granted an extension, a full month, on my search for a bargeman. The Elvenking was quite understanding, competent help being so _hard_ to come by these days." In truth, the Master had never exchanged missives with the Elvenking directly, and Galion, the Elvenking's seneschal, was growing decidedly impatient at the unexplained delay, intimating that his liege was similarly displeased. _But Bard doesn't need to know that._

Bard at last raised his head. His face was grim, as cold and lifeless as stone, but his eyes...! Oh, how they burned, lit from within by utter loathing, the slow drying stripes of come on his skin and in his disarrayed hair making him look more than half a savage. _Some wild man from out of the forest_ , thought the Master, suddenly uneasy. _Or one of those queer Easterlings._

Holding fast to the fact that, mere moments ago, he'd had Bard at his mercy, helpless as the Master fucked his mouth to satisfaction, the Master tilted his head in consideration. "You may leave at any time, Bard, your word broken but with no ill feeling on my part. I will seek elsewhere for a bargeman. Though..." The Master's voice turned concerned. "Do you truly wish to return home empty-handed when you've already come so far and done so much?" _Fallen so low as to whore yourself to a man you hate._ The Master smiled inwardly as Bard looked away, sure that he'd heard the unspoken. Not so worried now and beginning to anticipate having Bard suck his cock tomorrow—and perhaps the next day, too, and the day after that—the Master waited.

Finally, Bard said, "It's _enthusiasm_ you want?" His voice was as ice but, underneath, quivered a bleak note. The Master repressed a smirk. _He is yet mine._

"Skill would please me, as well," the Master added. "And when I'm satisfied with your conduct, you shall receive your reward, as promised." The Master laid a hand over his heart and, expression wounded, said, "Though I have no doubt you think me a dastardly knave, I assure you, Bard, that I am a man of honor..." Bard skewered him with a glare as fatal as one of the man's arrows, and the Master almost quailed, hastily finishing, "...in matters of business."

Bard was silent as he ran a mostly steady hand through his hair, raking it of come, his eyes closed. He wiped his face clean with his sleeve, ignoring the Master's handkerchief still on the floor, then rose stiffly from his knees. His gaze was carefully blank as he met the Master's politely questioning stare, but the corners of his mouth were pinched. "I will hold you to your word, Master," said Bard, a dire vow. The Master had expected no less and nodded in smooth acceptance. Bard breathed in, then exhaled a gust of air, shoulders hunching slightly and a shudder running through his lean frame before he forced himself to calm, walking slowly, as if his joints ached deep, to retrieve his coat. "I... will see you tomorrow, Master." On the way to the door, Bard's pace quickened until he was very nearly in flight, flinging the door open and vanishing around the corner, the flap of his coat whipping the frame.

The Master eagerly scooted his chair to the window and, soon enough, watched Bard sprint down the boardwalk like the dragon had left its lair in the Mountain and was at his heels, spewing fire. A smile spread gradually across the Master's lips as he rubbed his fingers together, recalling the feel of Bard's skin. _Not broken, not truly_ , he thought, _but_ mine _. For now._ He would not fail to exploit his advantage.

And so the Master did. The next day, Bard did not hesitate to strip out of his coat and kneel, though his movements were jerky, taking the Master's cock in his mouth without (much) prompting. He licked and sucked, if not exactly enthusiastic, then at least determined to be done with it. The Master, however, was not done with Bard.

When Bard was once again on his hands as well as his knees, heaving up what he'd swallowed of the Master's come, coughing raggedly, the Master yanked Bard's head up by the hair. "No teeth," the Master said sharply, as Bard winced in pain, panting. The light scrape of Bard's teeth down his cock as Bard pulled away, gagging on his come, had been undeniably arousing, admitted the Master, some part of him thrilling at the risk, but a danger it was to allow Bard a longer leash. "No teeth," he repeated, gentling his tone. He gripped Bard's jaw tight enough to bruise with one hand, then caressed Bard's come-spattered lips with two fingers of the other as his whore shivered at the touch, rubbing his still warm seed across Bard's skin until it'd sunk into the man's very pores, never to be washed clean. "You have another chance to please me well tomorrow, Bard." And the Master savored how fear edged into Bard's eyes before he closed them, nodding minutely.

The day after, the Master almost came at the first tentative stroke of Bard's tongue, like a kitten lapping at a saucer of milk, while he fucked Bard's mouth. _Ah, Bard_ , he thought, as he pumped hard and fast into Bard's throat, balls drawing up at the choked whimper of protest. _I'll make a good whore of you yet._ This time, Bard didn't even try to swallow, too shaken, but the Master held his head in place by the ears, coating Bard's face and hair white with ropy spurts of seed, cock seemingly draining for minutes. The Master groaned as he came at the sight of disgust and _shame_ roiling under Bard's taut skin. When the Master was finished, cock soft again in his pants, Bard did not refuse the Master's offer of a handkerchief, taking the soiled cloth with the barest of pauses and brusquely mopping himself down, body rigid.

 _Anger at me?_ the Master wondered idly. _Or at himself?_ Dismissing Bard's harsher feelings as of no import so long as he stayed compliant, the Master delivered his verdict: "Better, but I believe you can do better still, can't you, Bard?" He gestured at the dirty handkerchief Bard had kicked to one corner and raised an eyebrow. "Tomorrow, less of a mess. Wouldn't you agree?"

By the sixth time, a week later, the Master had to concede, sighing in pleasure as his thrusting cock was laved by a wet tongue, that Bard was becoming quite the accomplished cocksucker. He ran his fingers through Bard's coarse silk hair, dark locks curling, and mourned that their time together was at an end. Not only was he having trouble finding fault with Bard's service, but the Elves were demanding answers for the continued stoppage of river traffic. The Master looked down at Bard's head, bobbing between his spread legs, and heaved another sigh, one that changed into a moan when Bard made a low involuntary noise of pain, the sound vibrating along the Master's cock. _I will miss this_ , thought the Master, considering how much longer he could keep Bard on his knees.

Finally, the edge of his arousal growing too sharp, the Master began fucking his cock deeper into Bard's mouth, breath quickening and pulse pounding in his veins. Bard choked at first but had at last learned to relax his throat. The Master groaned and groaned again as he drove his cock against spasming muscles, painfully hard at hearing Bard keen, wounded, as he tried desperately to draw breath enough. All too soon, the Master was coming. Bard gagged when the Master's seed hit the back of his throat, then swallowed it down as quickly as he could. Still, come filled his mouth, trickling from the corners in thin white trails as the Master shoved his softening cock in once, twice, three times. Releasing his iron grip on Bard's hair, the Master leaned back in his chair, sated. His cock slipped from between his whore's lips as Bard wrenched away, gasping, on hands and knees as usual.

The Master traced with his eyes the line of Bard's throat as he swallowed convulsively, fingers digging into the wood of the floor. Turning reluctantly from this arresting sight, the Master mechanically wiped his cock clean with a handkerchief, tucking himself in, then opened one of the drawers in his desk, pulling forth several sheets of parchment, the topmost with his official seal. There was a sudden intake of breath from Bard, followed by what was almost a sob, stifled.

"Congratulations, Bard," the Master said with false cheer. He was disappointed to see that Bard had climbed to his feet and removed any trace of come from his face using his sleeve while the Master completed the necessary paperwork, initialing, signing, dating, and stamping irritably. "You are hereby appointed my bargeman on the Forest River. Report to the customs office at the South Gate for consignments and to receive pay on a monthly basis."

How the Master regretted that he could not order Bard to collect fees from him in person. _What might I have... persuaded him to do?_ But that was not routine procedure, and while the Master had no worries that Bard would go about town blabbing of their arrangement, for shame that he played the whore, others were not so constrained. The Master had taken steps to avert gossip this past week by rotating the guard, but if he started meeting with Bard every month when there was, legally speaking, no need to, people would inevitably talk. A sex scandal the Master could do without. _Why can I not fuck the man in peace, free of meddlesome rumormongers?_ He sighed.

After checking that all was in order, the Master folded the papers into a packet and handed them to Bard, who took them with shaking fingers. Another pang of regret shot through the Master at the sight of Bard with his shabby coat pulled tight about his body, one arm wrapped protectively around his middle. _Why did I not think to have him strip naked?_ Not that the Master lusted after Bard's body or that of any other man, but seldom was a man more vulnerable than when he was as bare as a babe newly drawn from its mother's womb. The Master thought wistfully of striping Bard's chest with his come, marking his claim across those jutting collarbones, arched like the wings of a bird in flight. _A missed opportunity._

Bard had unfolded the papers, eyes feverishly scanning every word, every line, every page. The thin sheaf of parchment was slightly crinkled at the edges where Bard's unsteady hands had grasped it too tight before he loosened his grip by force of will. The Master watched in interest as Bard's face twisted in an agonized expression of mingled anger, shame, relief and, chief of all, hope.

This was more emotion than Bard had shown in days, since he wiped himself clean of the Master's dripping come with the Master's handkerchief. For the moment, Bard was laid open. His heart was as plain to the Master as if the Master had cut into his chest and spread his ribs wide to see it beating red and furious. Pain the Master had wrung from Bard when his knees ached from the hard floor and his jaw ached from the thrusting of the Master's hips, his throat from the scraping of the Master's cock. But what was such pain compared to that which could wound a man soul-deep? Though Bard had whined and whimpered, choked and gasped under the Master's hands, never once had he cried or cried out. Even now, his ordeal nearly over, Bard read the papers sealing his appointment to the post he had debased himself for with dry eyes, hunched shoulders shuddering like he was falling apart in sobs but white lips pressed closed over any sound of hurt.

 _I would see his face wet with tears_ , thought the Master, an ugly feeling clawing at his insides. _I would hear my chambers echo with his screams._ It was then that the Master decided he was not through with Bard. He would coerce the man again into his bed, in the fullest meaning of the phrase, and the next time he would not be satisfied with just fucking Bard's mouth.

Smiling pleasantly as he imagined Bard split in twain, jerking, on his cock, the Master said, "I trust you find all as expected, Bard. The bureaucracy of our fair town can be such a tedious process, and I'd hate to learn that one of my clerks made an error costing you your new station, so arduously won." The Master berated himself for not having arranged precisely such an administrative blunder.

 _No matter_ , he then assured himself. _There will be other chances._ When he was in the guard and his wife lived still, Bard was an irritating do-gooder on the best of days, a dangerous dissident on the worst. His livelihood secured, Bard would not be long in reverting to his former bad habits, the Master figured, men of his like being quite predictable in that way. _And I will be ready to catch him as soon as he puts a toe out of line._

Glancing over the papers again, Bard nodded curtly and said, rasping and low, "All seems to be in order, Master." Somewhat surprised, the Master realized he could not recall the last time Bard had spoken to him. _Has he not said a word all week? Surely not!_ Bard's voice was raw, as gritty as sand to the ears, the repeated abuse of his throat clearly having taken a toll. The Master wondered in passing how Bard had explained this change to his children.

When Bard turned to leave, papers clutched close with both hands, the Master called his name. Bard tensed. "Have you nothing more to say to your benefactor?"

His gaze carefully blank but for a spark of fierce emotion, impossible to name, Bard said, stiffly, "Thank you, Master, for this boon." A quiet croak, but the Master grudgingly admitted that Bard may not be able to produce speech any louder.

"You are _very_ welcome," the Master replied graciously. "Do your new duties well, Bard, and cause no more trouble. You have my leave to go now." The Master had barely finished dismissing him before Bard fled, the door left swinging open in his wake.

Standing, the Master crossed to the window and followed Bard with his eyes as Bard walked south, head bowed, no doubt eager to present his papers to the customs office. The Master watched until Bard disappeared from his sight, then returned to his desk, plans already forming in his head and resolve hardening in his heart. _You are not rid of me yet, my whore._

**· · ·**

For the next two years, to the Master's intense frustration, Bard evaded all of the Master's attempts to entrap him. He lived quietly with his children, seldom leaving his house except for the Forest River or with them. The boy would be on one hand and the older girl on the other, the youngest strapped in a sling across his front until she grew enough for Bard to carry in one strong arm while her sister walked with increasing confidence at their father's side, hands clasped low before her like a proper lady.

Bard did not even go to market days as he used to, his produce delivered to him at home by a widowed herbalist or one of her five sons, the eldest nearly twenty. In exchange, Bard gathered plants for the herbalist's practice from the deep forest and occasionally gave her squirrels or rabbits he'd snared. His only solitary trips, his children left in the care of a neighbor, besides when heading out to his barge or returning from it, were his bimonthly rounds of the shops. Bard never visited the same ones, however, sometimes the baker, sometimes the butcher, the tailor, cobbler, or candlemaker. And he had few other routines outside of his duties, making his way about town by a different route every time. Though Bard showed a distinct preference for the less crowded streets and alleys, this just made it harder to have him followed without notice. The spies the Master had set on Bard were confounded.

Of course, the Master thought acidly, these spies had largely proved themselves incompetent fools. A truly embarrassing number of them had startled Bard and been pinned to the nearest wall with a tense forearm at their throats. Many refused to resume their watches after these incidents, mumbling vague excuses. Bard's senses and reflexes had apparently sharpened further, though the Master hardly believed that possible, and his rage was unabated. The Master couldn't decide whether he was annoyed at Bard's still resilient spirit for the inconvenience it caused him in keeping eyes on the man or excited that it remained whole for him to break.

The Master had returned to his other whores but found the women less satisfying than before, unable to rouse him much unless he pictured Bard in their places. They moaned and writhed in affected pleasure when the Master wanted honest tears and screams. Every once in a while, with a whore whose hair was dark and shoulder-length, waves unruly, the Master contemplated stuffing his cock down her throat until she choked on his come or fucking her raw up the ass while her back arched in pain, fingers scrabbling uselessly across the sheets. But always he refrained. In the end, not one of these nameless women was Bard, and he could ill afford to antagonize the steely-eyed matron of Laketown's finest pleasure house by ruining one of her girls when he was so short on palatable options for his own relief, what with Bard continuing to elude his grasp. _Curse the man!_

Instead, after he dismissed whores unsated, the Master entertained himself with detailed fantasies of how he would punish Bard for his transgression. Perhaps he would chain Bard to his bedposts, hand and foot, face down with ass presented for the Master to fuck whenever he wished. Many a night the Master came pumping his hard cock at the thought of his seed painting Bard's thighs, his back, pooling in the curve of his spine above his ass and on the bed below as it oozed pink from his twitching, abused hole. Better yet if Bard could be coerced somehow into a semblance of willingness. Could he be made to beg, humiliated, for the Master's cock?

Leverage was what the Master needed. And Bard's children came immediately to mind. They _were_ children, however, and in the Master's experience, few things could incite a crowd into a mob faster than a perceived threat to an innocent child's life.

What's more, each time Bard left home for the Forest River, he asked a different neighbor to watch his children; the entire quarter knew his brats now and was enamored of them, most having invited Bard's three to run about underfoot at their own hearths alongside their own children. The Master had the sour suspicion that this was no accident on Bard's part. Bard's late wife might have done the same, the damnable shrew's influence on her husband still strong though her body was over two years moldering in the grave.

Bard's children out of his reach (for now), the Master could only inspect Bard's performance of his duties in the hopes that he would be remiss in some way that the Master could exploit to his advantage. But Bard proved a more than competent bargeman. He learned to navigate the ruins of Esgaroth in sun and mist. He was unfailingly punctual—always early to the south docks, where the traders with wares to ship up the Forest River appreciated his young back, and never late returning from the river landing, barge laden with empty barrels. He even completed and filed all the proper customs declarations, carefully itemizing every shipment as old Guthran hadn't bothered with in years. In short, Bard did absolutely nothing that the Master could cite as an excuse to summon him for a private audience. This was surely no accident either.

The Master's one spot of luck was finding a willing informant in the customs office, a man named Alfrid, who had a keen eye for detail and made himself valuable, his faintly rodent-like appearance notwithstanding. As difficult as it was to have Bard tailed in town, it was impossible to do so out on the open waters of the lake. Alfrid's reports were the Master's sole window on Bard's activities during his trips on the Forest River, and if Alfrid thought the Master's interest in a lowly bargeman, Bard's every move and mood, strange, he did not see fit to question his orders so long as he was paid. The Master felt he could perhaps raise a practical man of Alfrid's talents to a more befitting post.

For the moment, though, Alfrid remained in place. And from his spy the Master heard of small, gratifying signs that Bard was not as well as he seemed. Alfrid noted that, on occasion, Bard returned with his hair wet when there had been no rain or his face chafed red when the day was warm and windless. He was distracted on these occasions, Alfrid added, often not answering hails until they were repeated, louder and closer to.

 _Recalling our time together, Bard?_ thought the Master, once Alfrid had slunk out the door, coins in hand. _My claim upon you is not a stain so easily removed._ Yet the problem of leverage resisted the Master's attempts to solve it. Frustrated, the Master began to consider whether arranging for Bard to be arrested on bogus smuggling charges would be worth the trouble of planting evidence and bribing witnesses.

And then Bard disappeared up the Forest River for the better half of a month.

The first couple days, the Master was unconcerned. Likely the Elves were late in floating barrels downriver, and Bard had provisions enough that he decided to camp at the landing overnight, hopefully to return to town the next day with a loaded barge. In fact, once the Master realized he could demand that Bard give an account of the causes of his delay in person, especially should he fail to deliver any barrels, the Master was elated. Here at last was leverage—if not ideal, for the infraction was a minor one—that he could use to bend Bard to his will.

When two days became three, then four, and still there was no word of Bard, an unhappy notion occurred to the Master. Could Bard be _dead?_ Not without reason was the forest known as Mirkwood. Rumors spread among the woodsmen of a dark sorcerer in the forest's southern reaches and of foul beasts creeping in the shadows under the eaves of trees grown twisted, the very air pressing close and heavy. None in Laketown ventured as deep into the forest as did Bard, poling his barge miles up the river and daring the woods in solitary searches for plants to trade the herbalist. As capable a fighter as Bard was, unarmed but for a wooden staff and far from even the prospect of aid, it was not inconceivable that the dangers of Mirkwood had killed him. The Master smashed a fine crystal decanter in a fit of rage at this idea, though not before he drank its contents. How he regretted not jailing Bard under some pretense and setting as bail a long, hard fuck, now that all his schemes and patience had come to naught. _And left me again short a bargeman._

On the sixth day after Bard went missing, a letter arrived by Elven courier. The Elvenking, Galion wrote, was calling a halt to river traffic while the Master's bargeman, one Bard, remained an honored guest—prisoner, more like, guessed the Master—in his halls. Galion finished by informing the Master that Bard would be released to his duties in two weeks, at which time trade could resume. The Master had a whore, dark-haired, brought to him that night and fucked her slow from behind, until she was mewling in her desperation to come or at least playing her part of the wanton well. This was no minor infraction. _He is mine._

In the clear light of morning, however, the Master started to suspect conspiracy. With Erebor the lair of the dragon and Dale near two centuries a ruin, the power of the Woodland Realm was the only that could challenge his own in this corner of the Wilderland. Did Bard think to seek asylum from the Elvenking? And how would the Elves, fey and fell creatures that they were, respond?

The waterway had become the primary trade route as the forest paths fell into disuse or vanished along with many an unwary traveler, but the Lakemen and Wood Elves disputed the upkeep of the Forest River, the Master arguing that he could not be responsible for the care of the banks to the landing for lack of men who would brave Mirkwood's haunted depths. The Master did not doubt that the Elvenking could use his dealings with Bard to force concessions from him, whether by threats of blackmail or formal charges of abuse of authority, backed by Elven gold and steel, if Bard had confided all. He felt Bard would not easily trust another with his shame, yet the Master found himself increasingly anxious in his uncertainty with each passing minute.

So, on the day Bard was to return, the Master personally went up the Forest River in the early hours before dawn, accompanied by a small contingent of fifteen guards and a servant with provisions to see to his needs. Bard's barge was moored at the landing, apparently undamaged, barrels lined neatly upon the deck, though half-filled with rainwater. The Master sent most of his guards and his servant farther upriver with their boat to wait hidden by the trees while he stayed at the landing with six men, intent on catching Bard unawares in whatever plot he had hatched with the Elves. It was approaching midday, the Master growing irritable in the heat and his hunger, when the scout on watch reported movement on the forest trail coming towards the landing. The Master hastily scrambled up from where he'd been sitting on the barge's railing, fanning himself, and ordered his men to take cover in the brush.

When Bard walked out of the woods, his steps light as a deer's, he was alone. The late summer sun caught in his hair and revealed colors of rich brown, gilding every strand. His clothes were mended as good as new, and slung over one shoulder was a gracefully curved longbow of silver wood that the Master noted with some alarm. Both the bow and the embossed quiver of arrows fletched in spiraling white feathers were unmistakably of Elven make.

The captain of the guards looked questioningly at the Master, expecting his command to break cover, but the Master shook his head, thinking furiously as he watched Bard crouch on the balls of his feet, setting bow and quiver on the pier within easy reach, to check that his barge was sound with hands and eyes. _I will have him arrested_ , the Master finally decided, _and learn the truth of his time with the Elves when he's behind bars._ Bard would not escape his imprisonment until he agreed to the Master's terms.

Suddenly optimistic that, after more than two years of frustration, he was less than a day, maybe two, from bedding Bard, the Master stepped from his concealing bush, arms spread wide in greeting. "Ah, Bard!" he cried, jovial. "Just the man I wa—" The Master got no further, the guard next to him tackling him bodily to the ground. An arrow tore through the air where his throat had been and hit a tree some distance into the forest with a sharp _thunk_ , point buried deep in the trunk, feathered end vibrating. All about the Master, shouts of alarm erupted.

Bard had tensed at the rustle of leaves and spun around with bow loose in hand, still crouched, but upon hearing the Master's voice, seeing the Master's pleasant smile, his eyes widened and his face went white. In one continuous motion, he'd drawn an arrow from his quiver and, staggering a step forward, nocked it to his bow, then fired, barely pausing to take aim, though his arms shook violently.

His first shot having missed, Bard grabbed blindly for a second arrow. The guardsmen were running down the riverbank, hands on the hilts of their swords, yelling for Bard to drop his weapon. Except the one who'd rolled off the Master but held his position shielding his prone lord, sword raised defensively.

 _What does he plan to do with that?_ thought the Master, a bit hysterical. The only man here who could perhaps have hoped to deflect an arrow in flight with the flat of a blade was currently drawing his bow, bent on assassination. Bard paid no attention to the guards converging on him. His dark gaze was fixed unerringly on the Master, who tried to sit up and at least hide more of his body behind his would-be protector's.

The Elvish longbow thrummed again, string slicing the air with a sound like that of silk threads being cut by a razor. His eyes screwed tightly shut, the Master braced for the blow to land. The words of Bard's former commander rang in his ears from the argument they'd had over his denial of Bard's request for leave. _"That lad's the best hand with a bow I've ever seen in all my years. Could shoot the wings off a drunken fly at two hundred fifty paces. Seems a right shame to let a talent like his go to waste 'cause you can't find some compassion in you for a man grieving."_ Peeved at being questioned so brazenly, the Master had demoted the old man on the spot for insubordination, from captain of Laketown's half a dozen companies of archers to master at arms in charge of green recruits and trainees. The now-sergeant was unfazed, however, warning the Master he'd one day regret not keeping Bard's loyal service. Then, saying that he'd inform Bard of the Master's judgment, he took his leave with a curt nod, not waiting for dismissal.

Even so, the Master couldn't quite bring himself to regret forcing Bard to be his whore—having Bard on hands and knees at his feet, choking on his come, had been too sweet a victory to wish otherwise—only that he had not been able to drive Bard to despair. _Curse the man!_ There was too much anger in Bard and not nearly enough fear, if his first instinct at meeting the Master unexpectedly was to attempt murder.

Screaming, raw and breathless, rose over the noise of a scuffle. The timbre of it punched the Master in the stomach, sinking in like a fishhook and pulling at his guts as it rolled, then fell. He opened one eye in a squint, feeling queasy. _Is it over?_ The man who'd stood guard before him was gone, hurrying to help his fellows on the pier where they fought to restrain Bard. Patting himself down with his hands, the Master found no wound; Bard's second and last arrow was embedded at an angle halfway up the gently sloping riverbank. The Master sighed in relief and clambered gingerly to his feet, straightening his clothes and brushing off patches of dirt left from his dive to the ground.

By the time the Master collected his wits and picked his way over to the captain's side, Bard's screams had mercifully died to an unceasing series of muffled cries and slurred words. One guard kept Bard pinned to the weathered stones of the pier with a knee in the small of his back, twisting Bard's right arm high behind him, while another tried to pry his white-knuckled grip loose from the Elvish longbow that Bard held in his left hand still. A third guard lay sprawled with his forearm across Bard's ankles, his head tipped back, hand stemming the flow of blood from his nose. The Master glanced at the captain, who sported a split lip and a bruised eye that was already blackening, then at the man sitting off to one side, an arm around his ribs, and finally at Bard, who twitched and jerked under his captors' touch, every so often growling. Blood trickled down Bard's chin from where he'd bitten through his lower lip in his struggles. It was a stark red against Bard's skin, which was bloodlessly pale.

 _A month with the Elves and he's gone feral_ , the Master thought, slightly repulsed. Whether Bard had lost his senses or not remained to be seen. The Master would bed Bard half-wild and thrill at the taming but not fuck a rabid whore. _Though if he_ is _of sound mind..._ The Master studied Bard again, gaze calculating. Bard may have sought to kill the Master but, in failing, had only tightened the Master's leash on him. _Mine. He is mine._

With a wrench, the second guard at last succeeded in parting Bard from his bow. Bard's hand, bereft, curled into a trembling fist. He moaned low in his throat, back arching as he brought his forehead to press against the pier.

"Braga!" the captain shouted at the Master's savior. "Find some rope to bind his hands and feet." Braga—the Master noted the name for promotion, possibly citing his valorous deeds this day in Laketown's defense—nodded and went to search the barge.

The captain's face was troubled as he looked down at Bard, whose prone body was now racked by choked gasps. "I knew Bard once," he said slowly, "and he was not given to violence nor ever so openly... disturbed." Running his fingers through his graying hair, the man shook his head. "I cannot guess why he would attack you, Master, and with such... furious ill intent." Deep furrows creased the captain's brow as he frowned.

"Nor can I," lied the Master, placing a hand on the captain's shoulder. "Rest assured, however, that I shall learn the truth of this." The Master turned pitying eyes on Bard, his voice kindly. "Until then, I think it best that Bard's... incident today be kept quiet," he told the captain, whose expression was grave. "Bard has served me well in the past, and nothing would please me more than to have him serve me well for many years to come." Bard had tensed as the Master began speaking, but at this his previously unintelligible words became a soft litany of _no, no, no_.

"The man's reputation should not be tainted overearly by rumors of madness." Sighing heavily, the Master continued, "And Bard _is_ a father of three. I would not have his children suffer the loss of another parent so young and so soon after their mother's untimely passing." The guards murmured in sympathy.

"Mayhaps the Elves cast a spell on him?" offered the man who was examining Bard's bow, stroking a wondering thumb along its smooth curve.

 _Bless the superstitions of simple minds!_ All six of the guardsmen, even the captain, showed various degrees of worry at the idea that Bard was enchanted, as if the curse might fall upon them by mere proximity. The Master hummed in consideration but, judging it unwise to slander the Elvenking's folk, finally said, "The Wood Elves have ever been friends to us Men of the Lake. What cause could they have to assail my bargeman or me? No..." He paused dramatically. "I fear a darker power is at work here."

One by one, his listeners came to the correct ( _wrong_ ) conclusion, as the Master watched, satisfied at the tale he'd spun. Less fortunately, he did not have to fake concern when he focused on Bard. Whose breaths had grown quick and shallow in the space of the brief conversation, as if he were a drowning swimmer, desperate for air as wave after wave broke over his head. _What is the matter with him?_ Bard's skin was clammy despite the midday heat, and his pulse beat so strongly at the juncture of jaw and neck that it was a marvel his heart hadn't burst in exertion.

"Captain," the Master said, tentative, "I do not mean to be cruel, but it may be safer that Bard is not conscious for the duration of the return trip." Seeing the captain's grimace of distaste, the Master gentled his tone further. "I know you would never condone intentional harm being done to a man in your custody, whatever his crimes, and that is certainly a laudable sentiment." He gestured at Bard, who had started shivering uncontrollably, breathing no easier. "Yet surely exceptions can be made to prevent a prisoner from doing harm to himself?" _Or revealing too much?_

The captain seemed reluctant but on the verge of agreeing when Braga interrupted. "Sir, I found some rope." _No promotion for him_ , thought the Master, resisting the urge to scowl at Braga's back as he and the captain, relieved to have another option, crouched to bind Bard's feet securely and his hands behind him.

As soon as the guards released their hold on him, Bard rolled onto his side and drew his knees close in to his chest, small and shaking. While Bard's breathing remained labored, his look sickly, he at least no longer struck the Master as in danger of expiring right there on the pier. _How aware is he?_ The Master weighed the risk of unwitting exposure.

"Go upriver, Braga, and call the rest back," the captain ordered. Once Braga left, following the riverbank around the bend, the captain turned to the Master and said, "I suggest that you return first to town with the others, Master." He glanced at his captive. The corners of his mouth pulled down at the whimpers of distress that came from Bard, whose head was bent like a beaten dog cringing at an upraised fist. "I will escort Bard personally to the guardhouse with five unhurt men on the barge. Truly, I believe Bard to be no threat to himself or anyone else in this state." The captain's voice stiffened in his conviction.

With a barely audible sigh, the Master said, "Very well, Captain. I bow to your judgment in this." Eyes tracing the line of Bard's shoulder to where his bound hands shifted restlessly against their ties, the Master added, "I expect to pay the prisoner a visit in the guardhouse later tonight for questioning. Bard will hopefully be able to offer an explanation for his actions then, but in case there is indeed some wizardry to contend with here, keep him in isolation." The captain nodded solemnly.

As his boat floated downriver, the Master's last sight of Bard was of the captain laying a hesitant hand on his back between his shoulders, rubbing slow circles as Bard uncurled a bit, the other guards busy emptying the barrels on the barge of rainwater. _That man's heart is too soft by far_ , the Master decided.

Even without the surety of unconsciousness making it impossible for Bard to talk, the Master was little concerned that Bard would be capable of coherent speech for hours to come. Neither Alfrid nor his less competent spies had ever reported Bard experiencing such a violent fit; the Master guessed that the difference was his presence and was glad, for that he could goad Bard to an unthinking reaction meant it would be all the simpler to force Bard's compliance. _Still, better that the good captain is not on duty this evening._

There was also the problem of the Elves. Closer to, Bard's Elvish longbow and quiver of arrows were clearly weapons of great value, the craftsmanship fine beyond any the Master had seen, save perhaps the ancient blades of Dwarven make salvaged from Dale's armories. The embossing on the quiver was dizzyingly intricate. The bow was inlaid with needle-thin veins of gold in matching patterns across the strange silver wood. And the Master was no expert on archery, but the helical fletching on the arrows, every shaft free of imperfections that might perturb its flight, seemed rather more advanced than the three straight feathers glued to the arrows of Laketown. None of his escort had been able to identify the material of the bowstring either, though one young guard fancied that it was Elf hair, to the scoffing of his seniors. Hair would fray too quickly to be of use outside of emergencies, they insisted.

 _He could be right_ , the Master thought warily, as the lad argued for Elvish magic. The Master was not so foolish as to believe peasant superstitions about the Elves, of course, but that they were stronger than Men as well as faster was plain. Then again, the Wood Elves were not known for being particularly welcoming to trespassers, yet the Elvenking had hosted Bard in his halls for near a month and sent his guest home with a lordly gift. _What did you do to win the fickle favor of the Elves, Bard?_ At times like this, the Master doubted his own sanity for wanting to bed a man who was not only insolent and dangerous but regularly stirred up trouble of the most inconvenient sort.

Of one thing above all else, however, the Master was certain. Watching Bard, naked and defiled, come utterly undone beneath his hands—the Master's grip tightened on the boat railing—would be worth the pains Bard had cost him. Already his blood ran hot in the knowledge that, short of fucking Bard to death, he could do as he pleased with his whore. _He can't escape me. Try as he might._

Every fantasy of the past two years—alive! For him to touch in vivid color and sound. The wet slap of flesh against flesh. The guttural cries of rutting. White seed striping dark hair and smeared over skin flushed red. The feel of a ( _virgin_ ) body yielding unwillingly to his hard cock.

The Master took several steadying breaths. What a heady rush! Sexual, yes, and deeply arousing but so much more, as well. The Master felt like one of the conquering kings of old, who came from the distant western sea in tall ships and drove their enemies like cattle before them, subjugating the barbarous tribes of lesser men, raping the land of its riches.

Bard was no common spoil of war, to be used and discarded, forgotten. Nor was he a painted courtesan with graces fit for display before refined company. The Master almost snorted at that image. He would not stand for their association becoming grist in the rumor mill and, he mused, he need not keep Bard within sight, just within reach. Firm reminders of his place and circumstances should be enough to cow Bard once the Master had broken him to a resigned acceptance of the Master's attentions. To claim Bard's submission as a private trophy... _Yes, yes!_ Ah, the Master desired that! Kernels of memory, brighter than fantasy, he could wear smooth whenever lust burned in his gut. He had preparations to make for tonight.

**· · ·**

Upon returning to Laketown, the Master first had his clerks prepare two sets of papers: one for sentencing a prisoner, the other an official pardon, with crime and punishment both unspecified. When asked whether he wanted these sections completed, the Master confided to flapping ears that this prisoner arraignment would be a special closed session, charges and verdict to be determined after he conducted a thorough interview. He ordered that the requested documents be delivered to his antechamber before supper, then left with a jaunty spring in his step, smirking at the thought that none could guess how _very_ thoroughly he planned to interrogate Bard.

 _Should I strip him of his clothes or have him undress himself?_ Both held promise. The former would likely have Bard ready for him to fuck sooner, the Master judged, remembering with impatience the way Bard had stalled in getting on his knees to suck the Master's cock the first time. But the latter tantalized with the prospect of forcing Bard to be complicit in his own violation. Granted, he already was, playing into the Master's hands with his botched attempt at murder, but why not humiliate him further? _And he can be taught._ Bard learned quickly enough how to be a good cocksucker, after all.

The Master's second visit was to the home of the draper and her husband, a young couple newly wed who'd been caring for Bard's children since their father's disappearance. It was his civic duty to inform them of Bard's current straits and, if in the process, he honed the knives he would use to cut Bard's heart from his chest, it was only happenstance.

"Oh!" the draper said, startled, when she opened the door. She turned to yell up the stairs, drying her hands hastily on the dishcloth she held. "Holte, darling, it's the Master!" Then, expression serious, she asked him, "Have you news of Bard, Master?" Damp towel slung over one shoulder, she crossed her arms, fingers picking at a loose thread on her sleeve.

Her husband ran pellmell to join them before the Master could answer, Bard's youngest giggling at his hip, hair still wet from a recent bath and dress slightly askew. "Yes, Master, Bard is to return today, isn't he? You mentioned last time that the Elves wrote you about it? We were just getting the children ready to greet their father." The man spoke in a breathless rush. The girl, suddenly noticing the stranger at the door, hid her face in the crook of his neck. "Perhaps invite him to sup with us, since there can't be much food left in his larder, least that's not spoiled. Did you see him at the river landing? Is he well?" The draper put a hand on her husband's arm, and at last the stream of words trickled to a stop.

"Yes, indeed, I've seen Bard, and he's to come back to town." The Master let the couple smile at each other in pleased relief for a few moments. "I'm afraid, though," he continued with a nervous cough, "that not all is well."

"Say not that he is hurt, Master!" The draper covered her gasp with a hand while her husband shot worried glances upstairs, where Bard's other two brats were presumably lurking. _No doubt listening in_ , thought the Master.

Making soothing noises, the Master said, "No, no. Bard is happily uninjured." He frowned in concern. "However, he was behaving oddly when I met him. He's to be held in the guardhouse under watch." The Master hurried to reassure his listeners at their looks of rising alarm. "Just as a precaution, mind you. Until I can ask him for a full account of his missing weeks. I'm sure you've heard the whispers of a growing shadow in the forest." He leveled a grave stare at man and wife both.

The man, Holte, nodded slowly. "Aye, we have. And feared Bard lost." He sighed, gently smoothing down the hair of Bard's daughter, tucked against his shoulder. "The little ones have missed him something fierce." Sighing again but in pained understanding, he asked, "How long will you keep Bard, Master?"

 _Until he gives me what I want._ The Master hoped that his whore was cooperative tonight, but Bard had proved himself stubborn beyond the Master's expectations in the past. "I cannot say," he admitted reluctantly. "With luck, no more than a day or two."

After taking his leave, to profuse thanks for the tidings he'd troubled himself to bring in person, the Master's mind lingered on Bard's youngest and the pale oval of her face, cheek rounding to a delicately pointed chin, as she peeked out at him from behind her hair. It was a shade of brown lighter than Bard's, though her sister's was lighter still, as he recalled, almost the blond of their mother. Bard's son, on the other hand, might one day bear a marked resemblance to him—tall and grim and dark-haired. _My, what lovely children you have, Bard._ The Master had never before considered them in view of this. He felt like laughing.

Finally, returning to his townhouse, the Master went to the kitchens. _Preparation!_ That was the problem with fucking an untutored whore who was not by vocation a whore. While the Master supposed he could use spit, pre-come, or blood, of which there was sure to be some—streaked pink across the sheets, his hands, Bard's skin; he shuddered—to ease his way, that struck him as plebeian and possibly quite painful, on his part as well as Bard's. Besides, in the end, he did not want to hurt Bard so badly as to require the attentions of a healer. Though bruises he would leave aplenty, where no one but him could see.

He found the cook dusted in flour, panning his supper rolls for the oven. "Ah, Master! What can I do for you?" Her accent was of Dale, he noted, surprised. Many of the refugees from Dale had settled in Laketown, of course, but he had not known there was one such among his household servants.

Smiling charmingly with an inward chuckle at what this stout woman would think of his raping the man who would've been her king, had fate and the dragon been kinder to Dale, the Master said, "I was hoping you could help me." She wiped her hands clean on her apron, nodding. "I spent much of the morning and afternoon on the Forest River, and the sun's baked my skin as frightfully dry as those loaves of bread would be if you left them to cook till tomorrow." The woman, amused, laughed brightly at this, her cheeks dimpling.

"You wouldn't happen to know if there's an oil here"—he indicated the countless bottles lining the shelves along the kitchen walls, the open door to the large and well-stocked pantry in one corner—"that might be suitable... for cosmetic use?" He shook his head ruefully and finished, "I'm almost embarrassed to ask, you seem so busy..."

"Don't you worry about that, Master," she assured him. "I have just the thing for you!" She rummaged about in one of the cabinets until she pulled out a round, flat glass jar with a wide mouth, then bustled off into the pantry, talking all the while. "It's an oil from the east, the Sea of Rhûn or around those parts. A bit pricy but no more so than the perfumes sold special by the apothecaries. My cousin twice removed—her hands crack like the ice on the lake every winter—swears by it! And you can eat it, too!" Another burst of laughter. "No scent, but I imagine you won't be much bothered by that, what with you being a man."

The Master hummed in agreement, interest caught by the array of baking utensils on the counter: Bowls, measuring cups, rolling pins, spoons and spatulas, pans and sheets of many shapes and sizes, largely unused. Eggs stacked high in a basket and a chunk of melting butter on a plate. A sack of flour sat on the floor, a smaller sack of sugar beside it. He couldn't tell if the cook intended to bake the evening away or had simply grabbed an excess of tools and ingredients in her energetic absentmindedness.

A sudden thought occurred to the Master and, eagerly, he cast his eye over the counter again until he saw what he was looking for. The woman emerged from the pantry a few minutes later, jar half-filled with a transparent, yellow-green oil that she passed to the Master after twisting on the lid. The Master sloshed the oil in the jar experimentally; it flowed easily but also slicked the glass insides with a thin coat. _Perfect._ "Thank you, my lady," he said, lifting one of the cook's hands in his to kiss lightly. "You've done me a great service."

" 'Twas n-no trouble at all, M-Master," she stammered, the hint of a blush coloring her face. "You... can always come back for more. I-If it does well." Distracted, she only stared as he left, a weight secreted in his pocket close to his side. The Master smiled, turning the jar of oil slowly in his hands. _She won't miss it. And I have a use for it._

Bard's papers were stacked neatly on the small dining table in his antechamber. The Master spent several pleasant hours reading them over and detailing Bard's crimes, the jar of oil set next to his inkpot, distractingly close at hand, its clear contents shading to a richer green as the sun sank behind the trees of Mirkwood. _Treason. Attempted murder._ He rubbed his chin, considering, then chuckled and penned a couple additions. _Conspiracy. Consorting with unnatural powers._ After Bard's reckless display of savagery at the river landing, the Master did not doubt that he could win a conviction uncontested. Nor that he could exploit the pity of the masses for a man gone mad—the father of three young children, the poor dears—to his advantage.

A maidservant came to light his candles, bringing also his supper on a large silver tray. Plated on fine china was a prime portion of steak, hot juices running pink when the Master cut into the meat with his knife to expose tender insides. Steamed vegetables, a bowl of raw greens and another of creamy soup, a saucer of vinaigrette beside the former, and warm, freshly baked rolls of bread that the Master tore a piece from with relish. "Be sure to pass my compliments to the cook," he told the maidservant, who nodded in assent.

"Now, will you be wanting some wine with your supper, Master?" the woman asked, as she moved briskly around the room, drawing the drapes closed.

Feeling in a celebratory mood, the Master said, "Yes, a bottle of the Dorwinion red, if you please." He dressed his salad liberally and speared a forkful of leafy spinach.

"Extra candles for my chambers, as well. I have business late tonight, then plan to answer my correspondence before retiring." A pause, as the Master pretended contemplation, teeth crunching through a slice of onion. "Why don't you place the candles at my bedside? I've always found letters more enjoyable when read reclining on a comfortable pillow or two. Wouldn't you agree?" _I want to see you, Bard. Stripped bare, with no way to hide from me._

"Of course, Master." The maidservant's tone was polite, but the Master spied the slight quirk of her mouth upwards at one corner and was satisfied that she would see to his requests. A disgruntled retainer could be a dangerous thing to a man in the Master's position—a source of information and a means for mischief in the hands of an enemy, even without an illicit affair as material for potential blackmailers. So, the Master was mindful to wear a magnanimous face before the household help. Who, if he suspected aright, thought him a jovial fellow, vain and fussy but basically harmless for all that Laketown was his to rule.

Bard may once have held a similar opinion, as many of the Master's subjects still did. _But no longer._ The Master remembered the almost animal terror the mere sound of his voice awoke in Bard, pinned ungently on the ground at his feet by strange hands, and smiled in anticipation. "I don't believe I'll require anything else for the rest of the evening," he said to the maidservant. "Why don't you and the others head home early?"

Raising a hand to forestall the startled woman's rushed words of gratitude, the Master continued, kindly, "In truth, I expect to rise quite late tomorrow, so you may inform the household that all of you have my leave to take rest until after the midday meal. Spend time with your families, run errands that need doing—I care not, for I shall be lazing about in bed." Sadly, not with Bard for leisurely wake-up sex. Bard could not be seen leaving the Master's residence the morning after a midnight interview and, besides, the Master refused to gamble his life on Bard's unwillingness to smother a defenseless man in his sleep. "I fear my constitution was not made for the rigors of the wild. My excursion today on the Forest River has thoroughly exhausted me." The Master laughed self-deprecatingly and shooed the bowing maidservant out the door to spread the good news. And, of course, to fetch his wine.

After supper, the Master sipped his wine—a full-bodied red with a tart bouquet—while waiting for the guard to change. The moon hung low in the dark sky when he left his townhouse, a narrow sickle that shone hardly any light upon the emptying boardwalks. Night watchmen patrolled the streets still, hurrying the townsfolk home. Rowdy choruses could be heard from the taverns, their proprietors not yet ready to eject their drunken customers. Though the Master knew that the same guards who now saluted him smartly as he passed would, in a few hours more, be gathered around a fire, sharing a bottle or two of cheap rotgut to ward off the chill of the lake, generally turning blind eyes and deaf ears to signs of wrongdoing, he was unconcerned. He planned to be in bed by then, fucking his whore, and having a certain criminal element available for hire was on occasion a convenience.

He wasted no time greeting the sergeant on duty in the guardhouse or his men, simply asking, "The prisoner?" The grizzled sergeant nodded, snatching a heavy ring of keys from a hook behind his desk and leading the way on a gimpy leg past the unoccupied cells in the jail's largest space to the rooms in the back, kept for solitary confinement or, more usually, extra storage. Slouched on a stool against the wall facing the one closed door, a barred window set eye-high in the thick wood, was a beardless lad who scrambled to attention at recognizing the Master.

"Prisoner's been quiet, sir," the young guardsman reported, as his gaze flitted nervously between his sergeant and the Master. "That is..." He fidgeted, hands pulling at the hem of his uniform tunic. " 'Cept for a sick spell 'round suppertime. Hasn't touched his food since. Just been sittin' in the corner, all huddled up, every time I looked in on him." Chest puffing a bit in soldierly pride, the boy added, "Which has been on the half hour, sir. As ordered."

"You are a credit to your upbringing and training, young man," the Master praised the lad, who beamed, while the sergeant unlocked the door to Bard's cell, calling through the small window, "The Master to see you, Bard!"

"I believe I'll take it from here," said the Master, placing a hand on the sergeant's shoulder before he could open the door. "Why don't you and this dutiful young man go join the rest of your company up in front?"

The sergeant began to protest, but the Master silenced him with a stern expression. "The prisoner is secured behind another set of bars, is he not?" Without waiting for confirmation, the Master continued, "And there are delicate matters of state involved in Bard's case that merit my personal attention and a _private_ interview. Have I made myself clear?" The Master gauged the man's mulish frown and sighed. "Sergeant, that is an order."

Once the sergeant retreated with a grudging _yessir_ , the young guardsman in tow, the Master picked up the latter's abandoned stool and entered Bard's cell, shutting the door after him. The room was bisected by a line of ceiling to floor iron bars parallel to the door, a hinged gate with lock offset to the right. Two dim torches burned in rusted brackets on the Master's side of the bars, one on each of the adjoining walls. Behind the bars, above head height, in the center on the far wall was another small barred window, through which the barest stream of fresh air could be felt. The Master wrinkled his nose in distaste at the battered metal pail in one corner. A tray of half-eaten food—a chunk of stale bread, a bowl of congealed gruel—lay on the floor towards the foot of a wooden bench jutting from the left wall, long enough for a grown man to sleep on, though not in much comfort.

Sitting on the bench, his knees drawn up within the protective circle of his arms, was Bard. He was pressed into the corner, as far away as possible from both the bars and the gate through them.

"Ah, Bard..." The Master set the stool down, brushed off the top, and sat. Bard followed his every movement with eyes that glittered in the torchlight, as wary as a deer at the forest's edge. Shaking his head, the Master mused, "What is to be done with you?" He affected concern. "I hope you realize your precarious situation. Wild rumors are spreading about town, despite my efforts to defend your good name, that you've fallen under the spell of an evil curse."

To the Master's mild surprise, Bard scoffed. "And who cast this spell? The Elves?" Beneath the rasping derision, however, the Master thought he detected a note of... almost enchantment. _You are not so untouched by the magic of the Elves._ Then, remembering the Elvish longbow locked in the armory with other confiscated weapons of far cruder quality, the Master wondered again whether it was not in truth Bard who'd charmed the Elves, as implausible as that seemed of a Man. _But you were never a common man, were you, heir of Girion?_

"Not our allies, the Elves, of course!" the Master conceded easily. "The dark one the woodsmen claim to be a necromancer, I fear." Bard's breath hitched. "If you have another explanation for your actions at the river landing, pray tell me now, so that I may put a stop to those who would see you confined to a madhouse or condemned to a worse fate in their heedless superstition. What have you to say for yourself, Bard?" The Master leaned forward, his bearing solicitous.

"I..." Bard's shoulders hunched as he rested his forehead on his knees. His voice when he spoke was muffled, weighted with misery. "I don't know why I—" He stopped, swallowing dryly. "I thought myself better. Let myself forget," he finally said, a bitter whisper. "How could I?" Bard laughed, and it was close to a sob. "How can I?" Then he fell quiet, apparently with no intention to continue or maybe unable to.

"That is _truly_ a pity, Bard," said the Master after a while. "I'd hoped to spare you this trial but, as ever, I am a slave to popular sentiment and so—"

"Don't pretend that you're not pleased by this." Bard met the Master's gaze, defiant in his sudden anger, tone biting. "To see me brought low. At—" He choked, before forcing the words out through gritted teeth. "At your mercy. Is that not what you want?"

The Master's temper flared at this show ( _still!_ ) of insolence, but he willed himself to calm. "As you wish, Bard. Let us be frank," he said, as courteous as if he and his whore were taking tea together. "I shall plead for clemency on your behalf and then, in a _stunning_ display of forgiving generosity, offer to care for a man possessed—one who would've murdered me were it not for the valor of some of Laketown's finest—in my own home, at my own expense." The Master smiled at how quickly Bard paled, a slight tremor in his hands where his right gripped his left wrist. "All you'll know for the rest of your life will be the bare walls of your prison and the bed where I'll fuck you in chains every night when there's not a soul to hear your cries." Chuckling, the Master jested, "Why, in a year or five, I wager you'll be as mad as rumored! But I'll keep you as long as you're a good whore."

Except for his shaking hands, Bard had frozen as cold as mountain ice in deep winter, face smoothed flat and eyes blank mirrors that the Master fancied he could view his clear reflection in. The Master was disappointed; he wanted a reaction from Bard, one his whore couldn't hide. "As for your children," said the Master, "they shouldn't be exposed to the influence of a madman, obviously." Bard flinched, and the Master continued, with relish, "But perhaps I'll foster them as mine own, the five of us a happy family under one roof." He laughed delightedly at his conceit.

"You need not worry that I'll treat them kindly," he assured Bard, "and teach them well." The Master let his voice drop in register, a hint of throaty eagerness coloring it. "In time, they'll come to love me. As you've never found it in your heart to." Again a flinch from Bard, more noticeable, as if the Master had slapped him hard across the face.

Though Bard presumably couldn't see it, with his head turned towards the wall next to him, the Master ran contemplative fingers over his chin below his bottom lip. "How fortunate that you have a son and daughters both. Girls who take after their fair mother and a boy who has your look." He leered. "What could be sweeter than the affections of grateful, obedient children? I shall enjoy being greeted with welcoming voices and trusting eyes when I ask to hold them close, then for small... favors."

"You wouldn't," Bard said hoarsely. His hair draped one knee as he pulled tighter into himself, speaking to the wall. Shudders spread up his arms.

 _Have I not convinced you of my depravity yet, Bard?_ "Wouldn't I?" The Master studied and straightened his cuffs with feigned interest. "I _am_ a man of perverse lusts." He tilted his head in a sly glance at Bard. "Did you not once say so yourself?"

"It's not... _love_ you want." Bard sounded hollow, worn to a thin shell lined with cracks. The Master had to strain his ears to hear Bard. Who murmured, as if telling himself a secret, "Nor a truly w-willing lover. Else why would you...?" The question trailed off into a soft keen, but the Master understood and found it not to his liking. For Bard was right.

Ugly rage built in the Master's chest until it felt as though his heart were in a vise, being squeezed to bursting under the pressure. He did not appreciate Bard's insight—no, not at all—or the failure of his bluff. He clenched his hands into fists on his thighs and, this time, allowed his bile to spew forth. "No, it's _you_ I want," he said in a vicious hiss. "Your brats are nothing— _less than_ nothing—to me. But don't think I won't hurt them in your stead, if you spurn my attentions, Bard." And, _oh_ , it was a soothing balm to watch Bard's head snap up fit to sprain his neck, every muscle tensing and expression stricken. The Master took a steadying breath and forced himself to _think_. "It would be a simple matter.

"A few disreputable characters to break into the house where they sleep and slit their throats." Bard began gasping for air, as he had earlier after his capture. He raised his arms to lock his fingers around the back of his bent head, elbows shielding his face. "Thieves turned murderers who escape unseen during the night into the trackless wilds." The Master sneered, each word mocking. "What could you do, trapped behind bars as you are? You wouldn't even be able to attend to their burials." At this image of his helplessness, Bard whimpered piteously, and the Master scented blood—a wound, a _weakness_. Tapping his chin with a finger, he consoled, "Though I might grant you one last chance to touch them." The promise of comfort, however wretched, was false, of course. Not to be sated unless he saw Bard broken in punishment at his feet, the Master honed his point to a cruel sharpness and drove it deep, tearing, into his whore. "When _I rape you on the sheets they died on_ , still stained with gore."

Bard unwound faster than a striking hawk, feet flipping the tray of food over, sending the bread skittering, the gruel spattering across the floor. He slammed into the iron bars with an incoherent scream. One arm stretched, flailing, for the Master through a gap, hand spread wide with fingers hooked into talons. He fell short.

Though the Master's heart sped, he was careful to keep his body relaxed, his face impassive. Unable to reach the Master, Bard snarled and grasped the bars with both hands, straining to move them with all his might. They rattled hard but held. He kicked at them, yelling wordlessly in desperate pain or desperate anger or both, the Master couldn't tell, but the metal was unyielding, and finally, his strength utterly spent, Bard slumped to the floor, legs folding ungracefully under him half in a kneel, half in a sprawl. He sobbed now, shattered, his head bowed. His hands clutched still at the bars, fingers white as bone against the black iron. Faint bruises of his own making ringed his left wrist. The Master's eye was drawn to the marks, stamped on such tender skin.

A knot of anxiety low in the Master's gut unspooled into excitement. Bard lay defenseless before him, sore hurt and pliable. _At last!_ The Master waited, however, while Bard tried to collect himself. He would hear his whore beg for his favor. _You know what I want._ The dark strands of Bard's hair were parted over the nape of his neck; the Master itched to strip Bard of coat and tunic, baring the knobby ridge of Bard's spine for him to stroke from top to bottom. _What shall you do next?_

Minutes passed, as Bard struggled to control his breathing. His grip on the bars tightened convulsively as his lean frame was racked by shivers he couldn't entirely suppress. Finally, Bard said, voice a rasping croak, "Release me." He did not look up at the Master. Then, quieter, "N-Name your price." His sentence ended in an involuntary whine that Bard cut off but not soon enough to escape the Master's notice.

Feeling in a celebratory mood, the Master asked lightly, "And why should I set you free when I have you at my mercy?" There was no objection the Master had not anticipated—another series of jagged sobs, less severe than the first, rent the man at his feet—that Bard could raise in his current state. Of this, the Master was confident.

When he'd recovered his wits again, Bard said haltingly, "I may be t-trapped, but you cannot silence me." The Master had a sudden flash of inspiration. _Ah, but I can, Bard._ How lovely a sight his whore would be with a bit between his teeth, broken to the Master's touch. Perhaps once he was not so keen on savoring Bard's every cry. "Having me gagged at all times would be... _unkind_." There was a wealth of bitterness in the last word.

It had never been the Master's intention to take Bard to wife, acting the doting uncle to a brood of children—just imagining the domestic arrangements necessary to house Bard's brats while bedding their father without suspicion made his head ache—so he was prepared to settle for a more sporadic affair, but this reason of Bard's gave him pause. "You would stand shamed for all to see?" he asked, his caution tinged by curiosity. He'd judged Bard unlikely to expose him, too humiliated to talk and hoping to spare certain young ears the scandalized gossiping of the townsfolk. "For your children to hear of?" It would not do to misread Bard in this crucial matter.

Bard laughed. It was a queer, hiccuping thing; there was a sliver of amusement in it, dark as the Mountain's depths, but it had also the sound of a man dying, mouth filled with blood. "One shame or another... Either way..." He exhaled shakily and murmured, focus turning inward, "What have I to lose?" A stifled sob. "I'm... uncl—" Bard stopped his tongue with an agonized moan.

 _He can resist me no longer._ The last of the Master's doubts vanished like morning dew in the heat of his lust. _He is mine._ Bard had finally learned that his place was on hands and knees for the Master to use unto ruin. _I'll sully you, Bard_ , thought the Master, conquest assured. So completely was he resolved to claim his whore tonight that to bear the intimate attentions of another would forevermore be sickening to Bard. "And what besides your silence would you offer me?" _Say that you are mine._ "I'm not yet convinced." _Beg me._

"I... I will come to your bed." The Master's cock twitched as he thrilled in anticipation. Bard swallowed, once and then again. "D-Do as you ask." He pressed the crown of his head to the bars with a stuttering gasp.

"Whatever I ask?" The Master hummed, repressing a satisfied smirk, and decided a test of Bard's commitment was in order. "If I want you naked on your back for me to fuck like a woman, would you lie down and spread your legs wide for me, Bard?" He licked his lips. Oh, the way Bard's face would crumple!

There was a barely noticeable hesitation before Bard replied. "Yes." It was a wavering assent, but the Master supposed he could expect no better. Bard rocked to and fro, restless, butting his head against the bars as if he might push them apart.

"And if it is your blood—your _pain_ —I want?" The Master in truth had little stomach for bloodsport with his past lovers, at least of the more vigorous sort. "Would you let me strike you, take a lash or a knife to you, and still bend to suck my cock when I ask you to after?" With Bard... He was nearly eager, surprisingly so, to see the sheets, his hands and his whore's skin all slicked red. _My cock even._ The Master shifted in his seat. That idea was undeniably arousing.

Another hesitation, longer. "Y-Yes." The word was pulled scraping from Bard's throat like it was a mess of glass shards on a fishing line. Bard clapped a hand to his mouth, body heaving. Though, thankfully, he did not retch. The Master reminded himself to have the sergeant clean the prisoner up prior to escorting Bard to his townhouse.

"Tempting..." An understatement, the Master thought, semi-erect cock uncomfortable in his trousers. "But how often can I expect to call upon your services? And for how long?" A monthly audience could easily be excused as a safeguard, humane as well as prudent, against a repeat of Bard's incident at the river landing. "For two to three hours every month perhaps?" The Master would find his daily routine infinitely more enjoyable if he could lunch with Bard knelt beside his chair, wearing only the bruises he'd left on hip and thigh, his seed cooling as it dribbled from between his whore's legs. _My tame pet._ "Say, for the next year?"

"No... _No_ , I can't..." Bard's voice cracked with ( _delicious_ ) fear. "N-Not more than..." He wrapped both arms defensively around his middle, curling inward, head shaking in denial. Teeth gritted, Bard at last said, "Just once. One night."

The Master frowned. "That does not please me," he said slowly, tone deceptively calm. Bard flinched, like he'd felt the sting of a whip across his cheek. Tremors started to crawl along his shoulders and down his arms.

"You would have me w-willing," Bard said, breaking into a sob at the end that he tried in vain to quell. "T-To fuck and _hurt_ and f-fuck again— _anything_ , however many times you..." He shuddered too violently for a few moments to speak beyond unintelligible syllables, bitten off before they could take shape. Once his fit subsided, Bard whispered, low and bleak, "I... can be a good w-whore." His breath caught. "Y-Your whore."

"But only for one night," chided the Master. "That seems miserly of you, Bard." He watched Bard with avid interest. How vulnerable Bard was! And the Master hadn't needed to lay a hand on him. The Master's one regret was that Bard's gaze had been fixed on the floor since that prideful composure shattered. He had yet to see tears wet on his whore's skin.

With a soft whimper, Bard choked out, "I c-could fight. You may f-force me still but not without help." _My, what an image._ The Master spun a quick fantasy of fucking Bard as he sucked the cocks, one after another, of a half dozen faceless men who held him at swordpoint. But the resulting desire curdled. _I dislike sharing_ , the Master realized. Not to mention the difficulty of ensuring the discretion of all the guests as to their host's identity and that of his pet. In any case, Bard was on the verge of collapse already, nerves overwrought. The Master had but to drive him a step further, and he'd be ripe for the plucking, rendered helpless to reject the Master's advances by his own terror.

" _Please_..." So weak was Bard's plea that the Master at first doubted his ears but, to his delight, Bard kept pleading, growing more agitated, as if he could do nothing else. _'Tis true enough._ "I... I beg of you, M-Master. P-Please..."

Never had a more wretched sound been sweeter! Raw as an open, festering wound, it nonetheless sent a shock of heady pleasure tingling from the top of the Master's spine to the very tips of his toes, which wriggled in his boots. The urge to unlock the cell so he could shove Bard down on the bench to rut against, cock sliding across cloth and muscle, was almost irresistible, forestalled only by the knowledge that he'd have to call for the key from the guards, who'd demand an explanation for all that they'd refrained from interrupting thus far. Plus—the Master eyed the discolored stains on the bench with suspicion—he'd rather fuck in a bed, ideally his own.

Still, the Master mused, feeling both agreeable and impatient, his pet should not go unrewarded for this show of good behavior. _It's time this parley ended._ "Oh, very well, Bard." The Master waved a hand lazily through the air. "Since you beg so prettily." Bard sobbed in relief, his litany of _thank you, thank you_ slurred. "But I have conditions of my own that I expect you to accept in return," the Master said sternly. As he'd guessed, Bard was too grateful for being spared a year of debasing himself at the Master's whim to protest, nodding. _You can't escape me._

"First, you are to answer my questions truthfully about your time with the Elves." Bard nodded again, movements jerky but sure. A shadow that had darkened the Master's mind since the morning after he'd received word that Bard was a guest of the Elvenking lifted. He would learn how Bard came to the attention of the Elves and the reasons for his extended absence. Whether the Elves would take offense were the Master to reassign Bard to another post more directly under his _personal_ supervision.

"Second, you are never to leave Laketown, on pain of being branded a fugitive from justice." Bard tensed but continued to listen intently. "If I am not to have you to fuck at my convenience, I want to know that you're close—always within my reach." _Do not think to flee._ His children were as effective as nails through his feet in forcing Bard to stay in Laketown, too young to risk a months-long journey to the nearest settlements of Men in the Breeland, Rohan, or foreign Rhûn over wilds raided by orcs and goblins as well as common thieves and cutthroats. But children did not remain children forever. The Master sought a promise against his whore running on that day.

Bard swallowed, arms tightening around himself as he considered. "A-Am I to be y-your bargeman?" he asked, suitably timid for the Master's tastes.

"That depends on whether I find your conduct with the Elves satisfactory, Bard." The Master sighed, thinking also of the merchants who'd sung Bard's praises to him—what a hardworking family man, with such fine manners! Though he didn't repent of delaying Bard's appointment to wring from him an additional week of cocksucking, the Master admitted that he'd failed to account for how this would stir curiosity about Bard. Who had, true to form, managed someway to charm the inquisitive in spite of his habitual dourness.

"I will not remove you from your post without good cause," said the Master sourly, "and your duties would exempt you, on a limited basis, from your travel restrictions." As Bard breathed deep, the Master mollified himself with the fact that, unlike the past two years, Bard would know in his bones that the Master's claim upon him was as binding as his marriage vows once were, both consummated. "Now, are we agreed?" A short pause, then Bard nodded.

"Lastly, if you are ever put under arrest again, I reserve the right to renegotiate the terms of our bargain"—the Master could not help smiling, scooting his stool forward closer to Bard—"or else collect a forfeit in the form of another night with you as my willing whore." Bard was silent, unmoving except for the shallow rise and fall of his chest; he would not have seemed out of place in a tomb, a living statue carved of cold stone. "Do you accept?" the Master pushed, when the seconds stretched with no reply from Bard. _You have no choice._ He hoped Bard recognized that soon, for the night was wasting away, and the Master planned to take Bard at least twice before releasing him to stumble home while the streets were empty of early wakers and the dawn patrol.

"O-On wh—" Bard choked and spent an interminable minute coughing raggedly, as the Master tried not to tap his foot in annoyance. _Curse the man's fool obstinacy!_ Hunched in miserable pain, having traded his dignity and body alike for his freedom, Bard yet refused to bow gracefully to the Master's power. "What charges?" he finally said.

 _Whichever I care to accuse you of_ , the Master wanted to snap but, restraining himself with an effort, said instead, "Why, Bard, I'm beginning to feel that you don't trust me," voice cloying. A bark of harsh laughter from Bard. "You wound me, but I shall forgive you this unkindness." Beneath the polite words lay an edge of steel— _I will brook no disobedience from you that does not serve to amuse me_ —the Master did not doubt that Bard heard. "Have no fear," he told Bard, who trembled with it. "I will only punish you for grave offenses, such as you have committed today. Treason, conspiracy to incite revolt, and crimes of that nature." The Master figured he'd left leeway enough for future amendments. "Are you satisfied, Bard? I tire of haggling," he warned.

"Y-Yes, Master," Bard said. "I..." He leaned his head against the bars, gasping wetly. "I accept."

Clapping his hands together, the Master stood. "Excellent!" he said, as Bard flinched. _Just one more thing..._

The Master approached the bars until he could reach a hand through a gap to comb Bard's hair gently with his fingers. He reveled in the mewling noises of distress he drew from Bard as he caressed the line of his whore's jaw down to a quivering chin that he tipped up and back, grip bruising. Bard's face was dry, his eyes closed—disappointingly so. "Look at me, Bard." The Master traced Bard's bite-swollen lips with his thumb; Bard shuddered. "Remember what you promised me." _Do as I ask._

Bard opened his eyes, though it clearly cost him dear. They were bright with tears unshed and distant, seeing not the walls of his prison nor even the Master but the horror of his life from this night on, raped and unable to escape the man who would rape and rape him again given a chance. "That's better," said the Master. "I'll be expecting you, my whore." Patting Bard's cheek affectionately, the Master straightened his doublet, glad for its concealing length. He smoothed his expression to one of judicious optimism in readiness to authorize Bard's release with the guards, though he felt so giddy he could've whistled a merry tune, like a boy playing truant. As the Master let himself out of the cell, Bard lurched to the metal pail in the corner and retched, fingers spasming on the floor.

**· · ·**

The Master lay stretched, hands folded over his stomach, on the settee in his antechamber when the long awaited knock came at the door. "Enter!" he cried. He'd changed into a light shirt, cut at the waist, and loose trousers, with a dressing robe on top, tied closed. The fabric was worn comfortable, and a weight rested hidden in an inner pocket against his left thigh, the jar of oil on his bed, where the covers were already shorn to reveal sheets white as virgin snow.

"The guards are here, Master, with the prisoner you were expecting." It was the housekeeper—an older woman, rather severe with her steel-gray hair gathered into a tight bun—who'd taken it upon herself to remain after the rest of the servants left for the night.

"Send them in," the Master said, sitting up with a huff, anticipation curling low in his gut. "The guardsmen will be departing shortly. Please show them out, then lock up and see yourself home," he added. "I cannot guess how much longer this matter will take, and I would not delay your well deserved leave for bureaucratic rigmarole."

He struggled to recall whether the woman had any family; if she were a spinster, the Master feared he wouldn't be rid of her until he retired to his bedchamber and without company. "Do you not have a new grandchild across town? I'm certain an early morning visit from you would be welcome." This was never a problem with his other whores, the Master thought a bit peevishly. He had an arrangement with the matron of Laketown's finest pleasure house, who understood the discretion required of a man in his position and sent a boy during the day as a runner to schedule after-hours services, for which the Master paid her a handsome fee.

"Aye, I do." The housekeeper's voice softened in grandmotherly affection, and the Master smiled inwardly, relieved. "My eldest daughter's daughter, not one year old. I didn't know you knew, Master," she continued, warming in gratified surprise, "but it's right kind of you to ask. I'll be along with the men and see to everything after." She bowed and left to fetch his guests from the entrance hall, the door standing open in her wake.

When the housekeeper returned with two guardsmen and their prisoner, the Master had walked to the small dining table and busied himself with shuffling Bard's papers, lifting a page now and again to seemingly peruse, though his attention was not focused anywhere but on his whore. The Master noted with satisfaction that Bard's hands were cuffed in front with a chain the length of his forearm, as he'd instructed, citing the need for Bard to sign his official pardon over the sergeant's protests that he was giving his would-be assassin a means to kill him. Taking in Bard's hunched shoulders and the way he hid his face, hair hanging lank, the Master deemed that unlikely.

"You are dismissed," he ordered the guards. Who exchanged hesitant looks, apparently sharing their superior's skepticism about the Master's declaration that Bard was no longer a danger to him. Straightening with a stern frown, the Master said, "As I told your commander, I'm convinced that whatever ill spirit possessed the prisoner is fled, and I'm prepared to stake my life on my surety, for the sake of freeing a man whose quality I know. A father who has not beheld his children for weeks. I cannot in good conscience deny this family that has suffered enough loss a reunion." The men shifted on their feet with a decidedly guilty air. "Bard was sick in contrition over his actions against me, as all your company saw, and can barely endure my presence, even now that I've absolved him." An implacable gleam entered the Master's eye. "I am still master of this town, whom you are sworn to obey." He sighed heavily. "Though I'd hoped that you would trust my judgment."

The guards snapped to attention in unison with a crisp _yessir_. One moved to unlock Bard's chains but, upon the Master extending his hand in tacit command, strode briskly forward to place the keyring in it. Then, with matched salutes, the two men marched out the door, which the housekeeper shut after them. "Good night, Master," she said, when halfway in the hall. "I'll see you on the morrow after the midday meal." She paused, glancing at Bard, and added, the corner of her mouth turning upwards, "You're a kind man, Master."

Finally, the Master had Bard to himself and hours to spend, uninterrupted. Though sore tempted to put Bard on his knees where he stood and stuff his mouth with cock, the Master held fast to his patience. It did not benefit a man of discerning tastes to gorge on the main courses at a feast until he'd sampled all the appetizers.

Bard had regained some of his composure, but it was fragile as a shattered vase inexpertly pieced together. His breathing stuttered as the Master drew closer, and his hands jerked with a rattle of metal when the Master grabbed one manacle, then the other to open them with the key. Quick as a lashing whip, the Master caught Bard's left wrist before his whore could pull away. He raised it to his lips and pressed a lingering but chaste kiss to the bruises on the underside, faintly visible, as Bard choked.

"You have been granted amnesty," the Master murmured against Bard's jumping pulse. "Or, rather, you will be once you've fulfilled the terms of our agreement." He released Bard reluctantly, who cradled his wrist like it'd been broken and took a step back, then stopped. "The papers are on the table. Feel free to inspect them." The Master, picking the chains up from where they'd fallen on the floor, reclaimed his seat. "I expect you before me soon, ready to do as you promised."

To the Master's surprise, Bard stayed in place, waiting. _So, you truly are resigned_ , he thought, iron cold beneath his fingers as he coiled the chains on the settee beside him link by link. _Or perhaps..._ "It pleases me to see you eager for my attentions," said the Master, gracious and probing. Bard could not hide his flinch nor did he meet the Master's gaze, but he forced his arms to his sides, hands clutching at his coat. _You hope to bear my touch with gritted teeth._ "As you wish, Bard." Amused by the depths of Bard's martyrdom, the Master decided he could indulge his whore, for a time at least. He had no interest in fucking a body as stiff as a corpse; it was live prey he craved, squirming in his grasp and bleeding. "Take your clothes off."

Swallowing but without a sound of denial, Bard shrugged out of his coat. He folded it simply in half and let it fall to the floor in a pile. His fingers fumbled, however, with the belt knotted over his knee-length tunic at the waist. Bard traced and retraced what looked to be—the Master narrowed his eyes—innumerable strands of fine gray-green rope woven intricately together, seemingly unconscious of his actions. The Master's ardor cooled somewhat; he'd nearly forgotten the first condition he set.

While the Master revised his immediate plans, Bard managed at last to untie his belt, winding it into a loose ball that he tucked next to his coat. He spent a few moments smoothing the roughspun fabric of his tunic before crouching with a sharp exhale to remove his boots. The Master smirked; Bard could delay the inevitable if he liked, but escape it he could not. Boots, followed by socks: a knitted pair, right heel patched in a cheerful pink, the left in apple green, stitches crooked and uneven. Bard rolled up his socks with undue care, secreting them in his right boot, away from the Master's sight. His bare ankles peeked out from under his trousers. The Master found the protruding lines of those delicate bones lovely, legs tapered so that he could almost close his hands around them, one on each.

Bard's hands fisted in his shirt and, after watching several aborted attempts to continue undressing, the Master thought he'd have to remind Bard of their bargain or else offer his aid, which would come at a price. He wet his lips, palms rubbing against his thighs. To the Master's mild disappointment, though, before he could speak, Bard yanked his tunic off over his head with a furious wrench, body heaving with the effort. He crumpled the shirt into a wad, then uncrumpled it, turning it right side out with fitful movements that threatened to rip the cloth, and finally dropped it atop his coat in a wrinkled heap, fingers unsteady. Bard's hair straggled wildly; he didn't try to tame it. Instead, he hunched over his crossed arms and shivered, as if chilled.

"Don't be shy, Bard," the Master chided. "Let me see you." A strangled noise from Bard that might have been the word _no_. "And unless my eyes lie, you have yet to complete the task I set you. Or am I to understand that you'd prefer to rot behind bars?" There was a note of warning in the Master's voice, keen as the edge of a razor. Slowly, Bard lowered his arms, every muscle straining as he fought the impulse to cover his naked, vulnerable skin.

He was long and lean, paler than his suntanned face would suggest except on his arms up to the elbows and in a wide ring about his neck. Bard's shoulders were broad and his arms strong from plying his trade for the past two years—moving barrels both empty and full, steering his barge by pole and rudder—as well as from wielding bow and sword when he was a guardsman. Dark hair curled over his forearms and on his chest. Still wavy, the Master chuckled to learn, though far shorter and sparser than that on his head. A trail of hair led downwards from his navel, disappearing into his trousers. A trim waist, without much flesh to spare, and hipbones the Master burned to wrap his hands around, his thumbs pressing bruises into the hollows of Bard's pelvis. This man was the Master's to ravish tonight, spread open across his bed in beautiful debauchery, wanton and wrecked.

The Master shivered, blood heating. "Take the rest of your clothes off," he said, suddenly impatient. Bard, drawn taut as a fiddle string, began unlacing his pants, but his fingers shook so violently that he made little progress—too little for the Master's comfort. _Why not take a taste now?_ "Wait." It may perhaps even settle Bard for the Master to pull lightly on the reins, accustoming his whore to his touch and command. "We have one last matter of business to discuss before you can pay your other debts." The Master patted the settee next to him with a smile. "Come here, Bard, and tell me of your time with the Elves."

Bard's head jerked up, and the expression on his face was one part relief, two parts uneasy suspicion, tinged with fear. The Master beckoned again, letting some of his frustration at being forced to wait on his whore show. Haltingly, Bard obeyed, approaching the Master on a curving path, his wariness clear like a signal fire high in the mountains. He seated himself as far from the Master as possible. His hands gripped the cushion, knuckles white as his fingers dug into the heavy brocade, and his posture was that of a hunted creature poised to flee.

 _This won't do_ , thought the Master, eyeing the separation between him and Bard with displeasure. He sidled over until he could snake his right arm around Bard's waist, hand sliding to rest snugly on a jutting hipbone. With Bard flush against his side, the Master felt how Bard jolted, as if to slip from his embrace. He tightened his hold, pinching the meat of Bard's flank hard. A stifled gasp and a shudder that had the Master tingling in reaction, then Bard stilled except for his breathing, low and harsh. The Master kissed the bared shoulder nearest him with a contented sigh and said, "That's a good whore," fingers stroking lazy circles over the red mark he'd left. Bard's breath hitched.

Leaning in, his lips brushing the shell of Bard's ear, the Master asked, "How did you come to be a guest of the Elvenking?" voice a husky whisper. He pinched Bard, this time gently—a reminder.

"I..." Bard swallowed. The Master's hand had wandered to the small of Bard's back and now moved up his spine. "It was a chance meeting." The words were thin and wavering.

As he considered this, the Master indulged himself by running his fingers along the knobby ridge of Bard's spine from top to bottom to top again. Difficult though it was for the Master to believe that Bard had not been courting a powerful protector in the Elvenking, he judged that Bard, by nature a honest fool, could not convincingly deceive him at this point. His whore vibrated like a plucked string. "You did not seek to befriend the Elves?" _And I am the fiddler_ , thought the Master smugly, dipping his hand below the loosened waistband of Bard's trousers.

"No..." Bard trailed off into a weak whine, as the Master nudged his smallclothes aside to touch skin. When Bard fell silent, breath rasping in his throat, the Master gave the flesh—firm yet yielding, _very_ much to his liking—in his hand a squeeze and hummed for Bard to continue.

After a lengthy pause, Bard said hoarsely, "I was h-hurt. By spiders in the forest." He had not been wrong in his estimation of Mirkwood's dangers, after all. Remembering his rage at being thwarted in bedding Bard by misfortune, the Master angled his legs to pin Bard's against the settee, his fingers hooked into the groove dividing hip from thigh to pull Bard closer. "The Elves must have—" Bard choked and turned his face away, before finishing, "When I woke, I was in their care." His voice was thick with emotions the Master couldn't sift through, try as he did.

 _There is some story here._ But, the Master decided, he had no need to hear of it all and less tolerance for talk, besides, with every passing moment, Bard's body warm and tense against his. Thus the Master grudgingly withdrew his hand to settle on the slope of Bard's lower back. He hoped that Bard would be quicker in answering his questions if he showed restraint. "And were your wounds the reason why you dallied with the Elves for near a month?"

Bard exhaled shakily, his left arm relaxing minutely where it was trapped between them. "Y-Yes." The Master wondered idly whether the spiders had left scars on Bard that were beyond the skill of even Elvish healers to mend. Then he shuddered and rubbed the unbroken skin under his palm to soothe his nerves. He had no stomach for the savage violence of battle, unrefined and unfettered.

Wanting a change in topic, the Master asked, "Did you meet the Elvenking?" He nuzzled the curve of Bard's neck, dark curls of hair like coarse silk on his cheek, and thought his whore was growing more receptive to such harmless little liberties. "How did you find him?" _How did he find you?_ While in theory the Master was free to appoint whomever he wished to raft goods and barrels to and from the Elvenking's halls, in practice his choice of bargeman was subject to the approval of the Elves, who guarded their woodland home zealously. No doubt the Elvenking would've appraised Bard by proxy had Bard not chanced upon a weeks-long stay in his healing ward. The Master simply hadn't expected the Elves to make contact within five years of Bard assuming his duties on the Forest River; from experience, the Master knew the Elvenking seldom troubled himself to act with regard for how fleeting mortal lives were in matters that required no especial haste.

"Yes..." Bard's tone was distant, caught in a memory that, given the Elvenking's repute, was likely fair and terrible both. The Master frowned at Bard's distraction and, in a fit of pique, reached with his left hand to tweak the brown nub of a nipple. Bard flinched, hissing in pain. His head snapped about as he squirmed in the Master's arms, flushing rosy as a maiden's blush; he flinched again at seeing the Master's face so close to his that they might've shared a lovers' kiss. "St—!" He gritted his teeth, as the skin around his nipple reddened. Then, to the Master's delight, Bard forced himself to calm, averting his eyes. "He thought me a trespasser, a spy," he said in a croak, "and was wroth."

 _But I am not._ Bard sounded just a bit desperate to please, if only to stall the Master from doing worse to him than half-clad fondling, and while the Master would not be stalled, this proof of Bard's surrender was still sweet to his ears. "Did you not tell him that you are mine?" The Master placed particular stress on his sentence's end, which was not lost on Bard. Skimming his fingers up from Bard's hip across flexing back muscles, his whore discomfited and restive, the Master brought a handful of Bard's hair to his nose and breathed deep. It smelled of damp and earth, the lake and woods clinging to their attendant. "Hired to barge the river?"

"I... I did," said Bard. The Master tenderly groomed Bard's hair into a semblance of tidiness. He toyed with the two slender braids that began at Bard's temples and met high in the back, twining together down the center; when he unraveled them, Bard whimpered, soft and wounded.

Combing through the now loose waves, satisfied, the Master imagined them fanned out on his sheets, slipping like dark tendrils of lakeweed as Bard writhed on his cock, begging to be fucked. "And what had he to say?" he asked absently.

"That..." Bard laughed, though it was pitched too sharp and too wet with tears unshed to be mistaken for merriment. "Only that I'm an improvement on the last man."

The Master sighed. He supposed his cloudy notion of reassigning Bard as his personal aide was naught but a fool's hope. Bard was too apt at winning friends, however unwittingly. The Elvenking was not generous with his compliments, yet he'd bestowed one upon Bard, nor did the Elves often allow outsiders to part them from their treasures. "It seems you shall keep your post, after all, Bard." The Master felt Bard swallow—once, twice, pulse a flutter—fingers having come to rest lightly at the base of Bard's throat, hand draped over his shoulder. "What of the bow?"

"It was a gift." The Master tapped Bard's collarbone, at first gently, then with increasing impatience until he explained, "The Elves found me a passable archer." That was certainly an understatement, but the Master had not the will to pursue this line of inquiry any further. He wanted Bard stripped and on his bed, prepared to take his cock, before his mood soured. Of the Elves, it was sufficient to know that Bard's meeting with them was not by his design, even if the Elvenking's favor secured his future as bargeman on the Forest River.

Kissing the top of Bard's spine, the Master said, "I trust, Bard, that this experience is a lesson learnt for you." Another kiss, with a hint of teeth. "Do not stray into the forest." Untangling himself from his whore, loath though he was to do so, the Master rose to his feet and picked up the open manacles, hanging the chain over one shoulder. Bard had scooted away as soon as he could and sat pressed into a corner of the settee, trembling. The Master petted Bard's bowed head. "Come. It's past time I bedded you." Smirking, the Master added, "If, that is, you'll permit me?"

Bard choked but nodded. Assured that Bard would follow him, the Master went to his bedchamber through the connecting door, walking to the small round table in the far corner, upon which were two candles, a wineglass and a half-empty bottle of Dorwinion red, ink, parchment, and a stack of letters. The Master occupied himself with sorting his correspondence as he waited for Bard.

He did not have to wait long. Setting the letters aside, the Master poured a glass of wine. "Come here," he said to Bard, who had stopped in the doorway to stare at the bed, face a rictus of terror. On stiff legs and bare feet, Bard skirted the bed to stand before the Master, hands clenched on his pants. The Master sipped his wine, contemplative, and instructed, "When I speak to you, Bard, you are to reply aloud. Understood?" Bard would let his awareness drift free like a kite cut from its string if he could, the Master suspected, and the Master wanted him present, his body a suffocating weight, and fully conscious of what was being done to him and by whom.

"Yes, Master," Bard whispered, though he first nodded mutely. His eyes darted nervously to the bed, muscles bunched up in readiness to flee; his expression was one of undisguised dread.

"Ah, Bard," said the Master, swirling the wine in his glass and chuckling. "Try to relax. Or this will be more painful than it need be." A sudden thought occurred to him, and he approached Bard with the glass tipped in invitation. "Why don't you have a drink?"

The answer was swift and sure. "No, Master." Bard glanced at the bottle, an elaborate wax seal of rich plum on its label like all wines imported from the Dorwinion vineyards, and shook his head, repeating, quieter, "No."

How grating that word sounded to the Master's ears, coming from Bard's lips and not as a plea for mercy. "But I _insist_ ," the Master said, playing the charming host, eyes cold and flinty. He laid a heavy hand on Bard's shoulder and squeezed until Bard winced, thumb bruising his ( _disobedient_ ) whore's sternum. "This is the finest wine in all these lands. Perfect for commemorating a special occasion." He touched the rim of the glass to Bard's stubbornly closed mouth. "Drink," he hissed, his anger becoming too great to veil with courtesy. "Or I will pour this wine over you and, so it does not all go to waste, lick it from your skin."

"Y-Yes, Master," Bard finally said, grimacing in disgust. But he opened his mouth and swallowed as the Master fed him the wine, just slowly enough that he didn't gag. When the glass was empty, trails of wine dried dark red and sticky on Bard's chin. The Master wiped Bard clean with the backs of his fingers, then tasted the adulterated wine smudged across his knuckles—tart, with a metallic tang he fancied was Bard's fear, distilled from lips and skin. Bard shuddered, revolted. The Master turned to the table with a smirk, feeling no qualms about showing Bard his back, and poured himself another glass.

"Now, off with the rest of your clothes." The Master waved one hand imperiously while raising his glass with the other to take a couple sips of wine, eager eyes on Bard. Who could not meet the Master's gaze but set to unlacing his trousers again, fingers still unsteady.

He started to push his pants down over his hips, then paused, knuckles whitening as his grip on the waistband tightened. Exhaling a gust of air, Bard stripped himself of trousers and smallclothes together in one rough shove and stepped back out of his heaped clothing, feet clumsy. His hands latched onto the sides of his thighs, arms twitching. No doubt Bard wanted to hide himself. _But he can be taught_ , the Master thought, smiling behind his wineglass, pleased.

Bard was long and lean everywhere, the Master saw. Delicate ankle bones led up to muscular calves and thighs that suited a man who could stand for hours at the tiller of a barge without tiring. The Master gulped his wine, mouth parched at the idea of spreading those legs wide. Nestled in a thatch of dark curls was Bard's flaccid cock.

Wine sloshed in the Master's glass as it wobbled on the table, dropped there upright but carelessly. Toeing Bard's clothes aside, the Master circled Bard clockwise in almost dispassionate assessment, were it not for how the Master's hand stroked an unbroken line over Bard's skin from his inner thigh, roaming low, across hip and ass to pry his left arm away from his side. Twisting Bard's arm behind him, the Master let his whore feel his arousal, pressing close. He rocked his hardening cock into Bard with a groan and said, "I've half a mind to fuck you up against a wall. Just so I can have these comely legs of yours wrapped around my waist." Bard had become as stone under the Master's touch, with nary a sign that he heard the Master, who frowned. "Or perhaps I'll seat you in my lap. Watch as you rape yourself on my cock." At this, Bard's face blanched.

Needing Bard more distraught, the Master slid his left hand down to fondle Bard's cock. Only for the space of a few heartbeats, the injustice of him dirtying himself to pleasure his whore before receiving his due foremost among the Master's objections, but enough to learn Bard's heft and texture: long and lean, flesh soft, yielding... and gratifyingly sensitive. Bard reacted as if he'd been gutted with a dull knife. He keened achingly and would've folded in on himself had the Master not wrenched his arm back, keeping him on his feet, swaying. While the Master had no illusions that he was a match for Bard in a fair contest of physical strength, Bard acted like a man dazed. _Or drunk._ His movements were weak and uncoordinated, more involuntary jittering—shifting from foot to foot, turning this way and that, aimless—than a concerted effort to escape the Master. Bard was vulnerable, and the Master would not miss his chance.

He jerked again on Bard's left arm, forcibly straightening it. Then he closed a manacle, the chain still hanging over his shoulder, around Bard's wrist with a snap of metal. Bard instinctively recoiled, trying to pull away, but the Master put his not inconsiderable weight into dragging Bard towards the bed, his grasp on the chains a stranglehold. Surprised and unbalanced, Bard stumbled. He nearly fell to his knees as the Master snapped the other manacle closed around a bedpost.

For a moment, it seemed Bard forgot his nakedness and his audience. He planted his feet and strained against the chains. To no avail, of course, the Master's bed a monstrous fourposter with a sturdy oaken frame, carven headboard and footboard that an entire company of soldiers might struggle to move in one piece. The Master quite enjoyed watching the play of muscles along Bard's arms and thighs, however—chest, back, and ass all lovely to gaze upon, firm contours limned in candlelight—standing safely outside his leashed pet's reach. He felt a pang of regret that Bard couldn't stay manacled to his bed, fed table scraps and cock, until he tired of this game. _If ever_ , thought the Master, eyeing Bard, who now knelt at the foot of the bed, gasping as he clawed at the iron locked on his wrist in animal panic.

Eventually, Bard turned to huddle against the side of the bed, knees drawn up within the protective circle of his right arm, his left hand clinging to the mattress as his breathing slowed. He tensed as the Master stepped nearer and sat on the bed, though at the head. In no hurry to fuck Bard with his whore shackled at his feet, the Master picked up the jar of oil. He peered intently at the yellow-green contents as he tipped the jar to and fro. "I'm about to do you a favor," he told Bard. _Sparing myself some hassle._

The Master crouched beside Bard, who shrank from him. Fisting a hand in Bard's hair, the Master yanked his head back and said, tone conversational, "You have a choice, Bard. I'm going to fuck you like a woman"—Bard bit his lip at this, his eyes already screwed tightly shut—"but it _has_ come to my attention that you are not one." The Master chuckled, low and amused, then continued, shaking Bard's head hard by the hair, "You will be hurt and hurt badly." He released his whore and placed the jar of oil on the edge of the bed next to where Bard's cuffed left hand gripped the sheets convulsively. "Unless you take this oil and use your fingers to spread yourself for my cock." The Master couldn't resist caressing a hand down Bard's curved back, fingers lingering on the swell of his ass. Bard leaned his forehead against the bed with a whimper. "I'll even grant you some privacy, for I know you are new to these pleasures."

With a parting (for now) pinch to Bard's side, the Master stood and smoothed his dressing robe, casually adjusting himself. "I have correspondence to answer." He rounded the bed and took a seat in one of the two chairs at the table, choosing the first letter in his stack and opening it with a crinkle of parchment. "You have until I finish," he added mildly, "to see that you leave this room walking on your own feet instead of crawling like a legless cripple." Though he could not see Bard, hidden by the bulk of the bed, he smiled at the stifled noises of distress his whore made.

The first letter and the second were requests for fishing licenses. The Master scowled. Why these prospective fishermen believed they could secure the right to haul their catch into town by ignoring official channels in disrespect of regulations was beyond him. They might've offered him some incentives at least, rather than nattering on about fish stocks in the upper lake and hungry mouths at home. He was penning his second response, identical to the first—" _I regret to inform you that your appeal has been denied..._ "—when from the bed he heard the rattle of chains and, better yet, the clink of metal against glass.

It was a trial to keep writing and not peek; the ink blotted where he'd held pen to paper for too long. _Patience_ , he reminded himself, willing his erection down. If he wanted to avoid the onerous task of stretching Bard with his fingers when he'd much prefer not to dirty them again, his ( _disobedient_ ) whore had to be coaxed into participation. The frequent pauses, only the sounds of breathing and his scratching quill filling the room, told him Bard was wary still and reluctant. With a sigh, the Master reached for another letter.

Word that the annual traders' caravan from Rohan and Gondor had been delayed by reports of marauding orcs in the Brown Lands but could be expected before summer's end. This meant fewer merchants and goods than last year, which had seen less than the year before, the wilds growing ever more dangerous to travelers. Though the Master hoped to commission a lebethron chest from a Gondorian craftsman, hardy as a piece of knotty driftwood, who'd never failed to show with an apprentice or two.

A rustling of bare skin sliding across the sheets had the Master sneaking a look at his whore. Except for a hand curled over the top, fingers digging into the wood, Bard was ducked behind the footboard. Bard was not cowering, however, the Master guessed, or he would not have climbed onto the bed. Tamping down his excitement, the Master began to read the next letter.

From the outlying pastures south of town, on the far bank of the Forest River, sheepherders with alarmed complaints of poachers stealing from their flocks and demands that guardsmen be dispatched to arrest the culprits. The Master wrote a reply promising that this inquiry would be given the highest priority until justice was served, then set the letter aside to foist on the commander of the day watch, a stickler for discipline, whose companies could probably do with a break from the monotony of training and patrols under his gimlet eye. After a moment's consideration, the Master added, with his sincerest apologies, that no compensation for losses would be provided. The public coffers could not be drawn on to settle private debts. Not without reimbursement, he hinted.

Even as he penned the proper phrases to quiet the bleating sheep, the Master listened closely to Bard's hitching breaths. He had to hastily put his quill down mid-sentence before he snapped it in half when Bard whined low in discomfort. Barely audible was a sound not unlike the squelch of jam being pressed out of a too full jar. _That's a good whore_ , he thought. One more letter, then the Master would inspect Bard's progress, thoroughly so, and whether Bard was ready to take his cock or not—he patted the left pocket of his dressing robe, glad for his inspired foresight—he would fuck his whore until Bard _screamed_. Almost humming in anticipation, the Master opened his final letter for the night.

His cheer sagged somewhat upon learning who the sender was: Mister Colsven, with his bimonthly petition for the Master's support in his efforts to establish a house of healing. The Master had lost count of the number of times he'd told the man that Laketown was not Minas Tirith. In such a small, rustic community, there was no need for a dedicated healers' guild and little interest in one, as the people trusted to folk remedies. All that expense, to deprive apothecaries, herbalists, and midwives of their livelihoods! Yet Colsven persisted. At tedious length.

The Master tossed the letter on the table, Colsven's straggly penmanship making his head ache, and said, "I hope your preparation is finished, Bard." A hiss of pain from the bed, Bard's chains jangling as he flinched at the Master's voice. Standing and stretching leisurely, the Master walked to the side of the bed opposite Bard's shackled hand. "Show me what you've been doing."

Oh, but Bard was lovely! He lay on his left side, right leg pulled up near to his chest so he could spread himself with his free hand, though that was currently fisting in the sheets next to his head. The first two fingers gleamed with oil, and slick spots trailed across Bard's right thigh, the lidless jar by his knee. Moving the jar to rest against the footboard, the Master repeated, " _Show me_ ," hand wrapped around his whore's right ankle. He massaged the delicate ridge of bone deep with his thumb, fingers tightening over the tendon in back.

Bard turned his face into the bed and whispered, "Y-Yes, Master." He reached down to grope blindly for the entrance to his body, his unsteady fingers smearing oil on his buttocks. The Master followed every movement with a hungry gaze. Bard's fingers sank in past the second knuckle. The puckered flesh of his hole quivered at the intrusion, slippery and pink. His wrist bent at an awkward angle, Bard fucked himself with his fingers—in and out and in, tortuously slow—forcing them apart against his resisting muscles. And how it hurt him! Humiliation painted his skin in blotchy red from shoulders to cheeks. His expression was a sculptor's study of agony, eyes shut and mouth gaping, breath rattling in his throat like a dying man's.

His own fingers fumbling in eagerness, the Master untied his dressing robe. He flung it in the general direction of a chair after emptying the pockets. "Good, good," he panted, palm flat against the front of his trousers. "I'm pleased to see you've finally overcome your shyness, Bard." The Master gave his stiff cock one last rub through the thin cloth of his pants, then leaned in, right hand on the bed, the left on his whore's hip, and said, "Now the third finger."

"Three fin—" Bard shuddered. His body tensed, constricting around his fingers, and he winced. With an utterly obscene sound that shot straight from the Master's ears to his cock, setting his nerves alight, Bard removed his fingers, curling his arm up until his hand fisted again in the sheets next to his head. He was careful to avoid touching the Master. "I—"

"Feel that's too much?" the Master interrupted. He stared at his whore's twitching hole and wanted to stuff it full—with cock and come, with fingers and trinkets—as it plainly needed to be, no matter Bard's coyness. _And I know just how to start._ "I thought you might." Bard choked, head turning and eyes opening to fix on the Master's face. He tried to speak, but what few words passed his lips were a tangled mass, syllables and consonants strangling him. With an affected air of nonchalance, the Master stroked Bard's hipbone and said, "I've changed my mind." He frowned when Bard shifted as if to move away, legs closing, and pinched the skin under his fingers hard. Bard heeled like a well-trained mutt, gasping wetly. The Master smirked. "I'm going to fuck you with _this_ first."

 _This_ was a rolling pin. Not so long and thick as some the cook had on the counter when the Master visited the kitchens earlier this afternoon, but wider in the center than Bard's fingers, smooth wood tapering slightly to blunt, rounded ends without handles. The rolling pin was a pale golden brown in color, lined in darker whorls. It would be quite a sight striped with his whore's blood, the Master thought. He picked the rolling pin up from the bed where he'd tossed it while undressing his robes and dangled it playfully in his right hand so Bard could see it.

Bard's eyes showed blank incomprehension at first, as he swallowed between hiccuping breaths and struggled to find his voice. But realization soon bloomed like a bruise on tender skin. Bard's face went slack in horror, his whole body jolting, stunned. Then he began to thrash weakly. Peeling his left hand from the top of the footboard, Bard gripped his chains, though whether he intended to pit his strength against the bedpost or pull himself across, away from the Master, was not clear. Either way, it was futile.

Expecting a violent reaction, the Master had taken hold of Bard's legs at the knees while Bard was still all but petrified with fear and, in a backbreaking heave the Master dearly wished he would never again be called upon to make, dragged his whore, sobbing, towards him until Bard's hips rested on the edge of the bed, knees falling short of the floor and feet jumbled together. Bard's chains jerked taut, stretching his left arm over the bed. Bard's flailing right arm was grabbed and wrenched behind him, the Master crushing Bard under his weight, hips cradling ass. He groaned in exertion and arousal both. Bard squirmed beneath him; every attempt to buck him off only succeeded in rutting his cock against his whore. He petted Bard's trembling flank and made shushing noises.

At last, Bard stopped his frenzied twisting—stopped trying to escape—for which the Master was grateful, doubting that he could keep Bard subdued with force much longer. It'd be a shame to spend his energies before he'd truly fucked his whore. He was not a young man anymore.

Breathing heavily, the Master seized Bard's hair by the roots and brutally tugged his head around to one side for a view of his face. _My, my..._ Bard was _crying_ , near silent. Only the barest suggestion of tears stained his cheek, a thin track that glimmered in the candlelight, yet the Master thrilled to see it. He brushed his thumb gently over Bard's cheekbone. "I'm doing this for you, Bard," he lied. "Another favor."

He reveled in Bard's piteous cries at this, high and soft. Indulging himself, the Master thrust his hips forward shallowly and hoped his whore would sound the same when he pushed his cock in, mewling almost as if in pleasure, sweet as a maiden on her wedding night. Bard, shaking, said hoarsely, "N-No, no..." His voice rose in pitch and desperation, cracking. "You can't—!"

"Can't I?" The Master's tone was mild, but a sudden anger blazed through him, burning as white-hot as his lust. _Insolent whore!_ He rolled off Bard to the left, seating himself close on the bed. _Always needing to be taught his place._ He didn't release Bard's arm, simply switching his hold from right hand to left, fingers bruising tight.

"There is _nothing_ "—the Master brought his open palm down on Bard's right buttock with a sharp smack—"I cannot do to you." It felt... _good_ , so good to strike his whore, an immediate relief of pressure like lifting the lid from a pot of boiling water. It felt better to hear Bard yelp. _Surprised, my pet?_ "I can fuck you and _hurt you_ "—another slap, hard, the mark of his hand already reddening on Bard's pale skin—"and fuck you again—anything I want, as many times as I want." Bard flinched at each hit, jerking in the Master's grasp; the Master shoved him into the mattress. His sobs mingled with confused whimpers, wounded and disbelieving. "Isn't that what you promised?" Two times in quick succession, and though the Master's palm was stinging now, he spared his ( _disobedient_ ) whore no pain nor humiliation. " _Speak!_ "

Bard was a mess of flayed nerves. His skin was unbroken—and a most becoming shade of dusky pink across his ass, the Master thought—but he'd been stripped of it as surely as if the Master had cut away every inch with a paring knife. _Do not think to hide._ The Master kneaded his whore's abused flesh. Muscles twitched under his hand, and the skin drawn over them was feverishly warm to the touch, beaten raw. _Do not think to fight._ Bard lived— _his children_ lived—by the Master's leave. The Master wanted the knowledge that his will and his body were not his own, existing only to serve at the Master's pleasure, graven deep on Bard's bones and heart.

Swallowing convulsively, Bard finally said, "... _y-yes_..." The word was insubstantial as a wisp of mist on a dreary morning. Wafting gray and ghostlike past Bard's lips, it vanished hardly heard. Bard shivered, as if chilled.

The Master kissed the nape of Bard's neck, dark curls that smelled of damp and earth and bitterness tickling his nose. "Then be a good whore"—Bard's breath hitched—"and spread your legs for me." Bard sobbed but did as he was told. His feet scrabbled across the floor as he parted his legs, back arching uselessly against the Master's weight.

 _Now, where is...?_ Fortunately, the rolling pin had fetched up within reach at the foot of the bed, not far from the jar of oil. Bard had rumpled the sheets in his struggles but not caused the oil to spill; the Master supposed he ought to thank the housekeeper's strict insistence on tidily tucked in beds.

For a moment, he was indecisive. Then Bard shifted restlessly, trying to turn onto his side, back to the Master. Who, scowling, let Bard's arm go to press his hand down between his whore's shoulders. Bard stilled with gratifying quickness. The Master hummed his approval, willing to forgive Bard a forgetful mistake or two, before his eye caught on the curve of Bard's spine and the way it ran the length of his back in a furrow, dipped above the swell of his ass. Mind settled, the Master leaned over to pick up the jar. The glass was cool against his palm.

He tipped the jar until oil dribbled in a thin stream onto Bard's back. Bard hissed as if scalded, shoulders tensing. Once the Master judged there was oil enough trailing down Bard's spine, he set the jar on the corner of his night table with a huff, having to stretch arm and fingers to nudge it into place. He then picked up the rolling pin and said to Bard, who'd again begun to fidget, "Don't move." Again, Bard stilled, rivulets of oil wending across his back. He had quieted except for the occasional sob, not much more than puffs of air. _Broken_ , the Master thought and was content.

As carefully as though he were shaving his whore close with a sharp dagger, the Master drew the rounded sides of the rolling pin—once, twice, thrice, leaving no skin untouched—up from the small of Bard's back to where his hand rested, coating the wood in oil. "No need to be so anxious, Bard," he purred. "Does the... _toy_ not feel smooth?"

When an answer failed to come, the Master ground the blunt end of the rolling pin against the bones at the base of Bard's spine, just hard enough to hurt. A mangled _yes_ from Bard. "Speak when spoken to," chided the Master. "And try to relax." He slid his hand lower, rubbing the remaining oil into Bard's skin, hooked his left ankle around Bard's to pry his whore's legs farther apart, and pushed the rolling pin in.

Bard was tight. Too tight for the Master to fuck as roughly as he wanted (for now), so he took his time and worked the rolling pin deeper bit by bit, slow and steady, winding it about like a braced auger. Bard clawed at the sheets, his chains rattling. He whined but breathlessly, like the rolling pin was forcing the very air from his lungs, and tears beaded on his downswept lashes. The Master's grip on the rolling pin nearly slipped before he glanced away. Though the sight of a wooden cock disappearing into his whore's body was in truth no better for his control. Pre-come wet the front of his trousers in a growing stain, his flesh cock tenting the cloth.

In and in the rolling pin went, until the widest part had breached Bard. The Master stopped then and tried to calm himself, listening to Bard's hitching breaths. "How do you feel?" he asked with a smirk. He wiggled the rolling pin a little, curious.

His whore was racked by quivers of pain, even as Bard's hole clenched around the rolling pin like an eager, grasping fist. The Master watched in rapt fascination. "I—" Bard, it seemed, had learned that a reply was always expected of him. No matter that the Master was fucking him into stuttering insensibility, pulling the rolling pin out enough to see a band of oil-slicked wood, streaked red, before screwing it back in. "I c-can't—" He gasped. "It's—" An experimental twist that scraped the rolling pin across Bard's insides and had him moaning. Suddenly, Bard recovered his wits. "T-Too much! Stop! _S-Stop!_ " he cried, frantic. " _Please!_ I—" The Master repeated the motion. Bard moaned again, back arching.

 _That was not pain._ And the Master smiled, a delighted laugh bubbling up from low in his belly. He laid his free hand over the mark he'd left on Bard's ass and said sweetly, "Why, my dear Bard, are you _enjoying_ this?" The Master gave Bard's ass an affectionate squeeze, then thrust the rolling pin in, angled. Another moan was torn from Bard's throat, choked with shame.

"No, no, _no—!_ " But his whore's body put the lie to that word. Bard moaned and writhed, wanton and wrecked, as the Master drove the rolling pin into him mercilessly, each time pulling farther out. Bard's hips rocked, haltingly, back as if he sought to impale himself more fully and forward, rutting against the bed.

The Master had wondered idly what could induce a man to willingly allow another to fuck him like a woman but assumed it showed a character flaw, a certain base urge to submit greater than the norm. There was some hidden secret to it, which he should have guessed, and a potent one, too, if a man such as Bard could find pleasure in being raped. Looking at Bard, sobbing brokenly as his body betrayed him, the Master thought he'd never been gladder to be wrong. His cock was painfully hard, but he wanted to hear Bard beg first.

"I think you are." He drew the rolling pin out completely, then fucked Bard deep with it in one long stroke. Bard _wailed_ and would've arched off the bed had the Master not shoved him down. "I did not take you for a slattern, Bard," he said, panting. "Was all your reluctance, all your denials, merely pretense?" Bard bent his right arm to his mouth, trying to muffle his cries; the Master was not surprised to glimpse his teeth biting into the meat of his forearm, for surely Bard would've screamed otherwise. Leering, the Master whispered, "You _want_ to be fucked, don't you?" tone confiding.

"N-No, I..." Bard actually sounded doubtful, half convinced of his own perversion and ill at the idea. How charming! His whore's mind was so confused that the Master _almost_ believed it possible to train Bard to enjoy his defilement and even crave it. But, alas, that was a task of months and years, lessons daily, not a change that could be wrought overnight. "Please _don't—!_ " Another keening wail, as the Master spitted Bard like a speared pig ready to roast. His mouth watered, his cock throbbing.

He fell into an easy rhythm, relentless but erratic to keep Bard on edge: shallow, rotating thrusts and ones that saw the entire bloodstained length of the rolling pin, save the end he held, sunk into his whore's body. "I could fuck you like this for hours," said the Master, left hand lazily caressing Bard's spine. "Until you spill your seed on my sheets." Bard's cock was trapped beneath him, but he couldn't hide his arousal. His hips jerked involuntarily, and he moaned loud as any cheap harlot in stark contrast to his ( _virgin_ ) tears. "Would that not be a fine thing?"

Bard made a gurgling noise, not unlike a man drowning. "... _n-no_..." He was barely coherent.

"Or you can beg me for my cock," the Master suggested, smile turning sly. He pressed the rolling pin as far in as it could reach and stopped. "Though I'm afraid I haven't the stamina of my youth," he continued, apologetic, "I promise you I can still perform." Bard shuddered.

An understatement, the Master thought. He'd done well to ignore until now the lust pounding through his body with every beat of his heart, but with Bard as prepared as he'd likely ever be, the Master could no longer be sated by little diversions. _One more._ Then he would bury his cock in his whore and finally fuck his fill. "What say you, Bard?" he asked. The Master waited, determined to wring this last surrender from Bard, who he was confident had heard him and understood. _You know what I want._

"Please, M-Master..." Ah, Bard pleading, raw and desperate, was no less sweet to the Master's ears for all the repetition. "I b-beg you..." The quaver that often lurked in Bard's voice since his service to the Master began but rarely surfaced above his harsher emotions was laid bare. With each word, Bard hollowed out until there was nothing else. "F-Fuck me..."

Hurriedly unlacing his trousers, the Master grabbed his cock at the base and squeezed until his excitement—he could ask anything of Bard, _anything_ —subsided to a more manageable level. The danger of a premature end averted, he stroked his cock and considered. Bard's willful nature had not been rooted out, the Master suspected, only crushed as a weed under a grinding boot heel. _But this is enough._ His whore patiently awaited his attentions: pliant and submissive, numbly resigned but too frayed to not react when hurt. The Master smiled and, turning the rolling pin inside Bard, commented blithely, "Fuck you? Am I not?"

Bard whined. A bitter note of humiliation crept into his tone, already shadowed by terrified despair. "W-With your cock, M-Master..."

The Master started fucking Bard slowly with the rolling pin again. "I'm not certain I follow you, Bard," he said, face a study of solicitous concern, though Bard was blind to it. He gave the rolling pin a wiggle that left Bard gasping. "What is it you want?"

"I—" Bard swallowed wetly, body jolting as the Master used more force. "I w-want your c-cock..." Said cock jumped at these words. The Master abruptly decided that he was through playing this game. "P-Please..." He rammed the rolling pin in to hear Bard scream and was not disappointed. Sobbing, Bard wailed, " _Please fuck me with your cock, Master!_ " voice cracking mid-sentence.

Out came the rolling pin to be carelessly discarded on the floor with a clatter. The Master shoved his trousers down his thighs and dipped fumbling fingers into the jar on his night table to coat his hard cock sloppily in oil. Breathing heavily, he told Bard, "Since you beg so prettily," then, hands on Bard's hips, grip bruising, he pushed and _pushed_ his cock into his crying, shaking whore.

He didn't bother to restrain himself; the bed creaked as he fucked his whore. Bard was no longer ( _virgin_ ) tight—hole slick with oil and blood, comfortably fitting his cock—but convulsed beneath him, muscles spasming uncontrollably. The Master groaned as he thrust into Bard's warm body, spread open on his cock, and the sounds of his pleasure blurred together with his whore's sobs, wounded and wretched, to ring in his ears like the most seductive of melodies, the slap of flesh against flesh an obscene counterpoint. A madness of lust was upon him. Bard was naked and debased and _his_. His to fuck senseless and his to bleed dry of everything that made Bard the man he was.

 _I own you_ , thought the Master, pace quickening. He pried one hand from a hipbone and wrenched Bard's head up by the hair until he arched his back, the Master's cock sliding deeper and _deeper_. "That's a"—he groaned again as his cock began to spurt—" _good whore_..." Bard's breath hitched. The Master felt it more than heard it, cock pumping Bard so full of his come that it leaked out as he kept fucking in, hips stuttering. _You will know no one's touch but mine._ This truth glowed in his mind bright as sun glare off polished silver even as his vision blackened at the corners.

After he'd spent himself, the Master pulled his soft cock out of Bard, who whimpered, and flopped over onto his back, panting. Every muscle felt loosened, his whole body thrumming. The bliss of consummation was slow to pass; it heated his skin pleasantly, like a fire in the hearth on a snowy evening. He turned his head to the left and gazed upon his whore with covetous eyes. _Mine. He is mine._ His seed dribbled from between Bard's legs to the floor in faint spatters.

Bard sobbed still but so weakly now that he was doing little more than gasping against the sheets, damp with his tears. Tremors crawled along his back and arms. His legs, though, hung limp over the edge of the bed, as if they'd been severed clean from his body. _Broken_ , the Master thought again and judged that he was in no danger of retribution. He closed his eyes with a contented sigh, resting.

The minutes slipped by, a cool stream through his fingers, as his breathing slowed. A jangling of metal had him opening one cautious eye. Bard was clawing his way across the bed, to the Master's bemusement, chains twisted about his left hand and his right with a white-knuckled hold on the top of the footboard. He hissed in pain as he dragged himself in fits and starts towards the corner farthest from the Master. Once there, he curled on his side, back to the Master. His legs quivered with the torturous effort. The Master supposed it was too optimistic to hope that one good, hard fuck could completely cure Bard of his fool obstinacy. _No matter._ Let Bard gather the tattered shreds of his pride if he wished. So long as he didn't resist (much) the Master stripping him of it all to make of him an obedient whore, the Master cared not.

Even the increased separation between them was not without its benefits. The Master chuckled, knowing that Bard had not meant to provide him a view. _But what a pretty one it is!_ Bruises darkened Bard's hips from the Master's fingers; the impression of the Master's hand was a fading red on Bard's ass. The curve of Bard's spine, bowed instead of arched, was as lovely as before and the bones of his ankles as delicate ( _vulnerable_ ) where they lay crossed, feet jumbled together. Bard had left a trail of blood and come on the sheets, oozing pink from his twitching, abused hole.

Lost in contemplation of his handiwork, satisfied and looking to add more, the Master almost missed it when Bard spoke. "L-Let me go..." His whore's voice was the barest whisper, deadened of all feeling yet fragile as an empty eggshell. Bard had not forgotten what he'd been taught so gruelingly either, finishing, " _Please_..."

While Bard's deference deserved reward, the Master was not willing to unleash his pet without another fuck. _I can be gentle._ There would be less need for harsh punishments, delightful as it'd been to mete them out. _He will not find it so hard to bear._ The Master smirked. Bard might, in fact, enjoy the experience.

"So eager to leave?" he asked lightly, though with a hint of reproach. Bard flinched and huddled into a miserable ball of jitters. "The night is yet young, my dear Bard. Many pleasures await us." The Master stretched his arms and legs with a groan, kicking off his trousers, which had fallen to his ankles as he fucked Bard. He'd regain his strength soon enough. And his whore would be close at hand then.

Later, Bard lay on his back, hips raised and legs spread wide as the Master raped him a third time. His left arm was still chained to the bedpost. Iron links pressed his skin white where he'd wound them tight around his hand, his wrist long since rubbed raw by the cuff. Bard's right arm was bent over his face, hiding his eyes; only his gasping red mouth remained for the Master's hungry gaze to devour. From the way Bard swallowed wetly, the arching line of his throat exposed, the Master thought his whore might be crying again.

" _Bard_ ," the Master said sharply, "I want... to see... your face." The Master punctuated his words with three brutal thrusts, each pushing his cock a bit deeper. He flexed his fingers and dug his blunt nails into the quivering flesh of Bard's flanks.

Then the Master stopped, though he wanted nothing more than to fuck Bard straight through the mattress. He pulled Bard closer, groaning at the slide of his cock across inner muscles slicked with his come, and leaned forward to whisper in Bard's right ear.

"Lower your arm, Bard, or I promise you there will be no end to this." The Master couldn't resist nipping lightly along the curve of Bard's ear, enjoying how his whore shuddered at the bite of his teeth. "I'll let my cock soften in you, then fuck you until I'm hard again." His voice roughened with lust. "And I'll do it over and over. When I release you at last, you'll be filled with my seed—as heavy with it as a pregnant bitch." A sob escaped Bard, stifled.

The Master leaned back and waited with a patience he didn't exactly feel. Bard, shaking, lowered his arm. He turned his face to one side, eyes squeezed shut.

"That's a good whore," purred the Master, wondering if he'd ever tire of hearing Bard's breath hitch at the name. He cupped Bard's cheek with a gentle hand, forcing Bard's head around so he could watch those noble features twist as he swiped a thumb across lashes damp with tears. "And now for your prize." Bard's chest heaved, his stomach caving in on itself as he choked on his dread. The Master could trace the shape of Bard's ribs through skin and muscle.

Remembering the sweet sound of Bard's voice cracking in humiliation as he begged to be fucked, the Master angled his hips as he resumed driving his cock into the man ( _my whore_ ) beneath him. Sweat beaded his brow, his shirt collar already somewhat uncomfortably sticky. With an effort, the Master spread Bard's limp legs wider, hooking one knee over his arm to fold Bard in half. _There!_ Whatever it was, hitting it with his cock caused Bard to moan, low and broken.

"Look at you," the Master said, panting. "Such an eager slut for my cock." Each moan he wrung from Bard, unwilling and ashamed, stoked his arousal with renewed fervor.

"Tell me, Bard, have you found any pleasure in bed since your wife's death?" The Master laughed throatily at the feel of Bard's cock stiffening, trapped between them. He bore down on his next few thrusts, encouraging his whore to rut mindlessly against him, and was rewarded with a jerk of Bard's hips, a thready moan. "By your own hand? With another woman?"

"D-Don't—!" Bard's eyes snapped open, pupils blown black, and there was a wrathful ember smoldering in them—at his mention of the damnable shrew, the Master guessed—that he delighted in snuffing out. Another thrust well aimed, and Bard's protests trailed off into another moan, his head tipping back as his spine arched helplessly. The fingers of Bard's free hand scrabbled uselessly across the sheets before fisting in the cloth.

The Master slowed his pace, for fear that he'd come too soon. His pulse was a pounding drum in his head. He stilled with his cock buried balls deep in his whore, who trembled, sending delicious little shocks along the Master's nerves. Breathing hard, he told Bard, tone cloyingly affectionate, "You are my lover now, marked and claimed." The Master kissed the inside of Bard's thigh, just above the knee draped over his arm, worrying at the pale skin there with his teeth.

"Let no secrets be kept between us, Bard." He stroked a hand up Bard's side, fingers learning the bumps and dips of his whore's ribcage. "For I am a jealous man. You are _mine_. And this?" Bard's heart beat like the wings of a hummingbird under the Master's palm. He drew his knuckles through the thin film of sweat glistening on Bard's jutting collarbones, then settled his hand loosely at the hollow of Bard's neck. "This is not for others to know."

Closing his hand around his whore's throat, the Master asked, "Aside from your dearly departed wife, who have you fucked or been fucked by, lover mine?" Panic the Master read on Bard's face, which blanched, as the possessive edge in his voice cut to the quick.

" _No_..." The Master's hand tightened, bruising—a warning. _Do not test me._ Bard swallowed painfully, his breaths shallow. "N-No one..." The Master caressed circles on Bard's tender skin with his thumb, not yet satisfied. Finally, sounding small and sick, Bard said, "No one b-but you, Master."

Sighing, the whole of his body warmed by contented ownership, the Master patted Bard on the cheek and said, "As I'd hoped." His whore flinched. Making hushing noises, the Master smoothed Bard's hair away from his clammy forehead. "But what a pity that you've not had a lover to care for you these past two years." He smiled, as if in sudden realization. Bard flinched again, terrified eyes widening. "Let us remedy this," the Master decided. "Take your cock in hand, Bard, and pleasure yourself."

Bard's mouth started to form a denial, but before the words could leave his lips, the Master's hand wrapped about his throat, this time with choking pressure. The Master watched, captivated, as Bard struggled for air. His face flushed red, and his right arm flailed weakly, hand pawing at the Master's shoulder in a futile attempt to shove him off. For a delirious moment, the Master considered throttling Bard into unconsciousness, feeling his whore's body convulse into pliant slackness on his cock, then slowly fucking Bard back to wakefulness. The impulse was fleeting, however. He released Bard soon enough, who gratefully sucked in breath, whining soft and high. "I hope," said the Master, casual were it not for the lingering touch of his hand on Bard's neck, "that you do not intend to refuse me."

"No, M-Master..." Bard sobbed, once and briefly, but did as he was told. His eyes fell closed, as though he couldn't bear to see the Master looming over him any longer, and fresh tears ran down his cheeks. He fisted his cock with, frankly, a grip that seemed to the Master excruciatingly awkward. An impression that was not dispelled by Bard's pinched face. Strangled whimpers forced their way from his throat, ringed in shadowy fingermarks, as he brought himself to full hardness with an unsteady hand.

 _Ah, well_ , the Master thought. While Bard may never be able to reconcile his body's animal need to be fucked with his mind's horror at being raped, this was of little immediate concern to the Master. "Show me your appreciation, Bard," he said, hips beginning to move again, "by spending before I do." Bard's hand slipped on his cock, already wet with pre-come, as his hole clenched greedily around the Master's.

Groaning, the Master added, as a spur to his half-tamed whore, "And I just might let you go." A thrust that had Bard writhing, split open like a ripe peach, and he was nodding, a filthy, garbled stream of _yes, please, yes_ pouring into the Master's ears. From then on, the Master heard nothing except the rush of his blood. He fucked into Bard with abandon, their joined bodies rocking the bed.

His whore came first, in a revulsion of pleasure. The Master nuzzled the crook of Bard's neck, winded but smiling, as the shuddering aftereffects milked his cock. With Bard's seed spattered warm across his shirt, he came, gushing and languid. His limbs felt swathed in layers of wool.

Later still, the Master sat on the edge of his bed, a foot on Bard's head to keep his whore prostrated on the floor, curls of hair tickling his toes. "F-Forgive me, Master," said Bard. To the Master's satisfaction, Bard's voice held not the slightest tinge of insolence, though it could not be called begging either, too flat and listless. He stayed folded on his knees in mock supplication even when the Master lifted his foot away. "Let me..." Bard swallowed but didn't so much as tense otherwise. "Can I p-please go?"

The Master pretended to mull this over. Sadly, if Bard was to fly from his townhouse unremarked upon by meddlesome rumormongers, his diversions were at an end. _Perhaps one more..._

He sighed. "My dear Bard, I know that you didn't mean to disobey me." He pulled Bard's unresisting left hand up by the chains from where it dangled short of the floor and clasped it in both of his on his thigh, rubbing life into the chilled skin. "Why, you must be exhausted from our... amorous activities." How difficult it was not to smirk! "You've not been intimate since your wife's death"—no reaction from Bard; the Master was mildly disappointed—"so I don't blame you for being deaf to me in your..." He paused, then asked, patting Bard's hand, "You did enjoy it?"

There was no hesitation in Bard's answer. "Yes, Master." Nor was there any joy. No pain, no fear, no shame—only a vast bleakness that stretched gray and barren as the Desolation, all turned to ash and ruin. The Master frowned. _Just as well that I require no more from him than his mouth._

"Before you take your leave," he said breezily, "I thought you may want to use this opportunity to practice the skills you first learned at my feet." The Master scooted forward and spread his legs, his whore crouched between them. He released Bard's hand to lean back, relaxed, on his. "Come kiss my cock. Lick it clean." His spent cock hung exposed under his sweat-dampened shirt; it was covered in oil, pink with blood and seed.

"Yes, Master." Bard did as he was told but silently, easily, as if without thought. He pressed a light kiss to the Master's cock, as a man swearing fealty might kiss his lord's ringed hand, then began to gently lave the soiled length with his tongue. With no other part of his body did Bard touch the Master, who hummed. His lust was not so sharp and consuming as his earlier arousal but rather a diffused heat that could be banked at will. _The perfect dessert._ And no doubt Bard would find the taste of the Master's come mingled with his own blood... _unique_. The Master smiled. _He won't forget this._

Afterwards, the Master left Bard kneeling, naked and shackled, at his bedside to avail himself of his washstand, upon which were a clean cloth and basin of water, changed twice daily. He stripped off his shirt, cursorily wiped the wetted cloth over his body, wrung it dry, and opened his wardrobe to don his nightshirt, the fabric draping near to his ankles and soft against his skin. Bard made no sound, even his breathing muted. The Master puttered around the room, picking up his discarded robe from the floor and gathering the laundry—shirt, trousers, sheets—for the maidservants. Looking at the last gave him pause, however, while sending a frisson down his spine.

The scent and stains of sex were simple enough to excuse, a vulgar jape for the help to giggle about behind his back, but blood? Unmistakable rusty streaks and splotches marked the sheets in a vivid testament to the violence with which he'd claimed his ( _virgin_ ) whore. Huffing, the Master decided that this was a matter that could wait till morning, when his mind was not lolling in sated pleasure, and untucked the sheets from the bed. Bard made no movement, even as the Master brushed past him.

Once the sheets were heaped atop his dirty clothes and the bed readied for him to sleep in, the Master petted Bard's bowed head, drawing the curtain of his hair aside to bare his throat, collared in bruises. His face was blank, his eyes staring blindly. "It was good of you to be so patient," the Master said. "Now, I must needs fetch the key to free you. You may then go, if you please, my whore." Bard's shoulders hunched.

The keyring was on the floor in the antechamber, dropped there hours ago. By the time the Master recalled this, he'd searched every corner of his bedchamber, and his energies were flagging, his limbs heavy. He returned to hear that Bard had found his voice. It was a low, rasping croak, devoid of inflection, that scraped across the insides of the ears like gritty sand.

"N-No more," said Bard, stopping the Master in his approach. "T-Touch me again and... I..." Bard's right fist clenched and unclenched in spasms on his thigh, the rest of his body unnaturally still, before he finished, "I'll kill you."

 _For a man threatening murder_ , the Master thought, pulse skipping a beat, _he seems queerly disinterested._ He was suddenly struck by the idea that Bard's awareness had drifted away to some space far removed from the world, distant as a faint star on a moonless winter night and as cold. Suppressing a shiver, he replied smoothly, "Abide by the terms of our agreement, Bard, and you'll have nothing to fear from me." The knowledge that Bard was irrevocably his and the memory of how he'd made it so would suffice for the nonce, the Master expected. And should the desire to bed his whore grow within him again, Bard would not be so unobtainable, confined to Laketown and subject to his power. Thus assured, the Master tossed the key to the floor at Bard's side. He walked to the table for his glass of wine, and if his path kept him carefully out of Bard's reach, it was merely from a concern that the man, plainly disturbed, not be aggravated to madness.

Bard unlocked his manacle with a rattle of metal but stayed hidden by the bulk of the bed, though the Master imagined he'd want his trousers at least. Amused by his whore's shyness ( _too late_ ) and a tad impatient, tired as he was, the Master set his emptied wineglass down with a loud click and stepped heavily to the head of the bed, where he sat with his back to Bard on the opposite side. Eventually, from the corner of his eye, the Master saw Bard's arm stretching to pull his clothes towards him. His wrist was mottled red and black. _And he must be crawling._ Stifled whimpers of pain, as Bard presumably dressed.

"See yourself out," the Master said, "and shut the door after." He climbed into bed with a sigh, lying on his back, eyelids drooping and hands folded over his stomach. Yet he didn't allow himself to doze as he would've liked, instead listening intently to Bard's movements. A quiet, hissing gasp and the scratching of fingernails on the bedpost told him Bard was trying to stand. Long minutes passed before he heard bare feet stumbling and dragging over the floor towards the door.

When the door _finally_ closed, the Master sprang up from bed and went quickly to lock it. His hand was turning the latch when a thud sounded on the other side, as if Bard had thrown himself bodily against the wood. His every nerve prickling as his heart sped, the Master strained his ears. A sliding noise followed, then snuffling, soft and broken. He breathed deep in relief and returned to bed, unworried now.

The Master slept well. His last thought was of his whore huddled, crying, at the foot of his door.

  


**TBC**

  


> Will I ever write Bard's adventures in the Woodland Realm? My answer to this question is, unfortunately, no. The scenario I used is actually based on another prompt at the [Hobbit Kink Meme](http://hobbit-kink.livejournal.com) ([Thranduil, Bard, Trespasser to Friend](http://hobbit-kink.livejournal.com/9471.html?thread=21336831)) that would undoubtedly balloon into another novella should I attempt to essentially fill it. As an apology of sorts for my laziness, I present a quick(ish) summary!
> 
> Contrary to the Master's belief, Bard does not go traipsing about Mirkwood unarmed but for a bargepole; one of the first things Bard did once away from the Master's spies was to fashion a crude bow and arrows tipped with flint heads that he keeps stashed at the river landing. One fateful day, Bard is deep in the forest collecting herbs, his barge already loaded, when he comes across a nest of spiders and an Elf in distress. The Elf, an OC named Gilvagor from my other fic ("[Clothes Make The King](http://archiveofourown.org/works/1233253?view_full_work=true)"), is conscious but trapped in webbing, having been separated from his patrol. Bard, being the Big Damn Hero that he is, can't leave Gilvagor to be eaten when the spiders return. He's only managed to cut free Gilvagor's arms, though, when Gilvagor warns of danger, imploring his would-be rescuer to save himself. Instead, Bard hands his knife to Gilvagor and makes a valiant stand against the approaching spiders, hoping to buy time enough for the Elf to escape. Luckily for them both, Legolas and Tauriel arrive with the cavalry at the eleventh hour, like the BAMFs they are, slaying the rest of the spiders before they can kill Bard but not before he's wounded and poisoned.
> 
> An indebted Gilvagor argues for Bard to be brought to the Elvenking's halls, healed, and treated as a guest of honor. Legolas, meanwhile, is suspicious, not recognizing Bard, new to his post as bargeman, and doubting that a mere Man could be so skilled an archer. Either way, the Elves decide that Bard should stand judgment before Thranduil, as do all trespassers in the Woodland Realm, whatever their intentions. For a couple days, Bard sleeps dead to the world in the healing ward. He does eventually meet the Elvenking, who tests him and is somewhat unwillingly impressed. Bard is then permitted to wander the palace's guest quarters and public spaces, Gilvagor introducing Bard to many of his comrades. Archery trials are held to satisfy Elven curiosity about the limits of Bard's abilities. Which ultimately prove to be beyond what anyone expected, least of all Bard, who had never thought to challenge himself. Bard doesn't have Elven eyesight or reflexes and is no match for the Firstborn in speed or grace, but he's unerringly accurate in hitting what he aims for, whether stationary targets or moving, even past the range of his vision. Bard, embarrassed at the attention, laughs his talent off as interesting but irrelevant. The Elves, however, see the hand of destiny at work, and there is much speculation about what Bard is meant to do. Smaug is discussed, for Thranduil recognized whose descendant Bard is and word soon spread, yet none could say why the dragon would rouse during Bard's lifetime.
> 
> Finally, feeling increasingly guilty over how much he's enjoying his forced vacation and worried over how well his children are faring back in Laketown with the Master, Bard asks that the Elves allow him to leave. Only to learn that Thranduil had set his date of departure weeks ago unbeknownst to him. The Elves insist that Bard take his pick of the bows in the armory before they release him. Bard chooses a yew longbow, about the plainest available, and is given a quiver of matching arrows. Gilvagor, who volunteers to escort Bard partway to the river landing, surprises him with a gift of another bow, one made by the Galadhrim and of _mallorn_ wood. Bard only agrees to accept this second bow and quiver when Gilvagor tacitly tells him the gift comes from the Elvenking. The yew bow Bard stashes in the forest for future (extralegal) hunting trips. He finds himself reluctant to let the _mallorn_ bow out of his sight and is still trying to think of a way to smuggle it into town when he reaches the landing, where the Master awaits him.


	3. Author's Note

Holy mackerel! An update! But it is not here. The final section of Chapter 1 has been added, roughly another twenty thousand words, which you can [skip to and read](http://archiveofourown.org/works/1588436/chapters/6045971#update). Please enjoy and leave your comments there, as this author's note will be deleted soon as I have a new (actual) chapter to post. My apologies for the inconvenience!

As for that next update, realistically, I wouldn't expect anything for six months upwards to a year or even more. I'd hoped to push through all the spring departures and arrivals, but I kind of need a break from this fic, much as I love it to bits. So, I'll probably write a couple cracky one-shots to cleanse the palate, then return to my other multichaptered story, whose readers are no doubt sharpening the pitchforks at my complete lack of progress since last September. These months-long waits between updates can be rough, I know, and I am terribly sorry for it, as well as eternally grateful for everybody's patience with my shortcomings as an author.


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